


you're a mountain, full of glory

by lescousinsdangereux



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, Minor Pyrrha Nikos/Weiss Schnee, Ski! AU, niche AU is niche, past fwb Nora Valkyrie/Yang Xiao Long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-11-25 18:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 63,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lescousinsdangereux/pseuds/lescousinsdangereux
Summary: There are a few things Yang knows for sure: nothing beats a fresh snowfall; all skiers are total nerds; her sister has never doneanythingwrong in her entire life; andevery single timeBlake Belladonna smiles at her, she feels like she’s at the top of her favorite slope, heart in her throat, board hanging over the edge. (She also knows that, someday soon, she’s going to have to do something about that last one.)





	1. like a sucker punch

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted a short while ago over on my [tumblr](http://thecousinsdangereux.tumblr.com/), so if the very beginning looks familiar, you probably just caught it over there.

_It hit me like a sucker punch_  
_Just one look and I'm out of touch_  
_I'm freaking out 'cause I'm scared this might end bad_  
_But I'll still come back for that_ _  
Sucker punch_

[Sigrid, _Sucker Punch_ ]

 

—

 

“Alright, my dude, it’s _go_ time! Just like we practiced.”

She lifts the bar, and the boy lets out the smallest of squeaks, muffled by the scarf wrapped around his mouth and throat, so tight it looks painful. Even without the sound, there are a few _not-so-subtle_ cues to clue her into his nervousness: he’s latched onto her arm with both hands, and, even behind the goggles, Yang can see how wide his eyes are as he stares at the upcoming off ramp with no small amount of anxiety.

“Lift your board up a little — there you go. And turn — just like that.” She adjusts him as much as she’s able to from her own seat and disentangles her arm with all the gentleness she can manage. “I got you, bud. Get ready to stand. Put your foot over the stomp pad. And here we go!”

She slides off the chairlift with the practice of someone who’s done it a million times (because she _has_ ), focusing on her student as he wobbles and, as he starts to tip backwards, grips the back of his jacket and forces him upright as they slide down the ramp. The movement causes a sharp pain to shoot through her right arm, but she grunts and bears it, making sure the both of them glide smoothly down the ramp and towards the start of the next run.

“See? You killed it, man!” She bends down slightly and raises both hands, palms out, ready for the double high-five the kid delivers with enthusiasm… and no gloves. He realizes it at the same time she does, wide eyes of panic returning, and Yang pats him gently on the top of his helmet before he can get too far into his worry.

“No big deal. You probably just dropped them when we were sliding off the lift.”

She twists, ready to start her search, but catches sight of a skier instead, sliding to a stop just in front of them with a grace that Yang can’t help but admire.

Not that _that’s_ the only thing worthy of admiration.

The woman is _stunning_. Like, ‘can wear her hair loose under a helmet and still have it look gorgeous and curling all around her shoulders’ levels of stunning. Her goggles are up, showing off eyes that are almost gold, lightened by the sun in the same stupidly attractive way her brown skin is, and her gear is coordinated enough — bold cuts of black, purple, and white throughout — to add credence to the idea that this girl skis _often_ and skis _well_.

Not for the first time, Yang wishes she could wear her own stuff rather than the garbage, all-blue Park City Mountain attire, which makes her look like a fucking _smurf_ , even after she’d made her own _slight_ modifications (like ripping the sleeves off completely, keeping her cool and showing off her muscles and the several bands of tattoos along her right arm). On perfect November days like this: all powder and sun, without a hint of a breeze, she prefers to leave her arms bare — just a t-shirt and a pair of thin trekker pole gloves — and it isn’t _her_ fault that the PCM bigwigs are out-of-touch morons who think their instructors want to wear ugly, burly jackets all the time.

“I think you dropped something,” the woman says, and _damn_ if her voice isn’t as good as the rest of her, full of the sort of amusement that’s kind rather than biting.

Oscar’s still looking a little shaky, so Yang grabs the gloves for him, which is _all_ responsible snowboard instructor decision making. It _definitely_ doesn’t have anything to do with the outrageous level of attractiveness that Yang is now leaning towards.

“Thanks,” Yang says, and then, because she can’t leave it at that, adds, “Skier/snowboarder solidarity, huh?”

“Oh.” The woman wrinkles her nose slightly. It’s fucking _cute_ , and Yang knows she’s probably smiling like an idiot at the sight. “You’re one of _those_.”

“I said _solidarity_! That’s like, the opposite of one of _those_.”

“Mmhmm, sure.” She looks around at Oscar and gives him a wink. (It’s the first time Yang has thought about the kid at _all_ for the past several seconds, so maybe the whole ‘responsible snowboard instructor’ thing had been a _hard_ line of bullshit, but whatever.) “You know, if you ever want to give skiing a shot, you could always try the mountain over. Only fifteen minutes away.”

Yang nearly chokes on her disgust. “I _know_ you’re not talking about Deer _fucking_ Valley!”  

The woman’s lips twitch, and she shoots a _very_ pointed look at the ten year-old boy next to them, who Yang absolutely had not forgotten about (again).

“Okay,” she adds quickly, looking down at the kid. “Don’t tell your parents about that. Or, no, tell them about how Deer Valley is _prejudiced_ and _terrible_ , but not the bad word part.”

“Right, because it’s so much better here at Park City, where the level of professionalism is _so_ high. You really get a sense of that from the caliber of their instructors.” Her mouth opens slightly in mock surprise, but the teasing glint in her eyes hardly abates (if anything, it grows). “ _I_ heard one of them starting shouting profanities at a random, blameless skier who was only trying to help.”

Yang gasps. “This is an attack! This is skier on snowboarder crime! Oscar! Start throwing snowballs at her!”

Oscar has enough spirit to actually try, and Yang vows to extend his lesson for an extra half hour as a reward, even if he nearly flops onto the ground (only stopped by Yang, once again, yanking him upwards by the back of his jacket) instead of landing any sort of hit.

“This isn’t helping your case.” One corner of the woman’s mouth lifts in a impish smile that goes straight to Yang’s core, a sensation that only worsens when the woman twists her hips, leans back, and starts skiing away. Backwards. “I’d say, ‘see you around’ but I’m usually at Deer Valley, so… bye, Yang.”

Yang’s mouth opens in surprise that’s entirely genuine, leaving her without any retort whatsoever as she watches the woman slide out of view.

“What the hell?” she whispers, mostly to herself. “I didn’t — ?”

“I think she saw your name tag,” Oscar points out.

It’d be helpful if he weren’t _giggling._

“Oh okay, wise guy. Yeah, laugh it up. How well would _you_ do if some random, _super_ hot... ” She trails off, reconsidering. “You know what? Nevermind. You’ll figure it out when you’re older. We’re boarding, so strap in, buddy. And since you’re having _such_ a blast, no sitting down this time.”

Oscar groans, but leans down as directed, wobbling slightly, and Yang focuses on the task at hand, pushing thoughts of the skier from her mind.

 

—

 

Or, _trying_ to.

“She was so _hot_ ,” Yang whines, a solid eight hours later.

“Oh my god, are you _still_ talking about this?”

At the sound of a full pitcher hitting the table — a dull thud she knows well — she lifts her head up off the back of her chair and sits up, front legs of her seat dropping back down. She finds Weiss looking down at her (both literally and figuratively, she’s pretty sure) scarred eyebrow lifting and disappearing into her bangs.

“You know you sound like a creep, right? I mean, _really_ , Yang? Hitting on a guest? That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“And you’re a buzzkill _already_ happening,” Yang fires back, grabbing a plastic cup from the stack.  

Weiss sits down in a huff. “You’re _such_ a bitch.”

“Hey!” Ruby chimes in, collapsing into the chair opposite Weiss and dropping a basket of cheese curds on the table, next to the beer. “Be nice, Weiss!”

“Yeah, Weiss! Be nice!”

“I hate you,” she says, pointing at Yang first, before turning to Ruby. “And _you_ are on thin ice.”

Ruby just smiles, lifting her hand to reveal another basket, this one containing fried brussels sprouts, which she slides in front of Weiss, who drums her fingers on the table for a full two seconds before accepting them.

“Okay, fine. You’re mostly forgiven.” Weiss lifts one of the battered vegetables and inspects it carefully, before placing it in her mouth with no small amount of trepidation. “These are the only _nearly_ edible thing on this god-forsaken menu.”

“Yeah, but today _you_ picked this place so you don’t get to complain.” Yang grabs the pitcher and pours them all a cup, purposefully fulling Weiss’s with more foam than beer and receiving a scathing glare in return. “Besides, Beacon has cheap beer.”

“Beacon is a _dive_. Of course it has cheap beer.”

“And no tourists. Unlike High West or that fucking awful place you made us go to for your birthday last year. What was it?”

“ _Downstairs_ ,” Ruby supplies, face pinched in disgust.

Weiss rolls her eyes hard enough that people across the room can probably see it. “ _I_ seem to recall you having an _excellent_ time there, Yang.”

“Well, I mean, I made the best out of a bad situation.”

“Ruby, how many girls did we see her dancing with that night?”

“ _Please_ don’t make me think about it.”

Yang slams her cup back down on the table; it’s half empty at this point and (thankfully) doesn’t spill. “We’re getting off topic! The point _is,_ Weiss specifically asked to meet _here_ tonight. Which not only means she can’t complain, but it’s also just… really weird.”

“Well, that’s because — ”

Weiss shushes Ruby immediately, and Yang’s interest spikes tenfold.

“Oh my god, I was just dicking around, but now I need to know everything.” She turns to Ruby, eyes wide and pleading. “Ruby, I’m your favorite person at this table — ”

“Excuse you!”

“ — because I’m your _actual_ flesh and blood. It’s like, your sisterly duty to tell me what’s going on with Weiss.”

Ruby looks back and forth between them, helpless as a turtle on its back, and Yang’s about ready to give in when Weiss caves first (caves immediately).

“Okay, _fine_ . I invited someone. I thought this would be… a _chill_ place to hang out.”

“A _chill place to —_ ” Yang cuts herself off, then slams both hands on the table, causing a woman at the table behind them to jump in her seat. “Holy _fuck_ , do you have a date? Are you meeting a date at _Beacon_? Oh my god, Weiss. Oh my _god_.”

“It’s not a date,” Ruby clarifies for her, throwing a cheese curd at Yang’s face, who, rather than dodging, manages to catch it in her mouth. “It’s just that girl Weiss has been skiing with.”

“ _Ohh_ , right.” Yang deflates a little, but not entirely. “The one that meets your ridiculous standards.”

Weiss, in the midst of checking over another brussels sprout for deficiencies, sighs. “I do not have _ridiculous_ standards. Just normal ones.”

“Remember when she called Lindsey Vonn’s super-G ‘adequate’?” Ruby asks in a snicker.

“I was referring to one run in particular!”

Yang refills all their drinks, this time taking a _bit_ more care with Weiss’s. “Uh huh. Sure.”

“ _Anyways_ , since you’ve both been bugging me about meeting her I invited her tonight, _despite_ my better judgement saying you’d probably scare off the only skier I’ve found in ages that can match my technical abilities.” She sighs. “Pyrrha just _had_ to move to California, didn’t she?”

“For love!” Ruby points out.

“Ugh,” Weiss groans. “I am _never_ forgiving Jaune.”  

(She  _almost_ manages to sound teasing. Almost.)

“Wait wait wait, can we rewind? Why would we scare her off? We’re _awesome_! I’m your coolest _and_ hottest friend, and Ruby is _Ruby_!”

“Thank you!” Ruby says, then blinks. “ _Wait_.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because every time I mention I’m meeting up with her at Deer Valley, you — ”

“Deer _fucking_ Valley!” Yang yells, and a few loud boos rise up from various people in the bar, Ruby included, though she quickly stops when Weiss glares pointedly at her.

“ — You do _that_ ,” she finishes.

“Okay, first of all, we only do that, because Deer Valley is objectively horrible. Second of all, we’re literally _banned_ from going there. _Banned_ , Weiss. All because we face sideways when we go down a mountain. Do you remember that one time when you needed a ride because your car was in the shop — ”

“You bring this up _every_ time!”

“ — and I had my board strapped to the roof rack because I had _just_ come from a lesson with a gross sixteen year-old who — ”

“‘ _Kept trying to check out my ass_ ’,” Ruby says along with her, cadence exactly the same.

“ — And this lady wearing a fucking _fur_ headband walked right up to me, in the _parking_ _lot_ , and said — ”

“ _Your kind isn’t welcome here_!” they all shout at once, and Ruby dissolves into giggles while the other two fail to conceal their fond smiles.  

“Alright, listen, I realize that some of the people there are… a bit much. But you and your _ilk_ — ”

“Oh my god. _Ilk_? Who’s a bit much?”

“ — tear up the snow far more than any skier. It’s a matter of conditions.”

“You’re so full of bullshit that it’s honestly embarrassing.”

Ruby throws another cheese curd at her; this one, she doesn’t quite manage to catch, and it bounces off her cheek.

“We promise to be on our best behavior, Weiss,” Ruby promises. “And we won’t make fun of Deer Valley.”

“Deer _fucking_ Valley,” Yang grumbles, but much quieter this time.

“Good. Because she’s an instructor there.”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Also you aren’t allowed to hit on her.”

This probably has the opposite effect Weiss intended, namely, Yang looks _excited_.

“Oh, shit, she’s hot?”

“Excuse me! What happened to being morally opposed to Deer Valley?” Weiss asks, rolling her eyes. “What, she’s hot and it’s all _fine_?”

“Well. Yeah. We forgave you for your dad being a war profiteer, or whatever, so, you know.”

Weiss flushes. More unexpectedly, so does Ruby.

“Stop trying to be charming.”

“Sorry.” Yang waves her hand dismissively. “Natural state of existence. Can’t be helped.”

“Yang,” Ruby laughs. “Just let her talk. She doesn’t want you to hit on her because Weiss thinks she might work well with the team. In a _professional_ kind of way.”

“Oh. Marketing?”

“Yes,” Weiss says, clearly relieved to be able to wrangle the conversation back into something more manageable. “She’s not _just_ an instructor at Deer Valley, she’s helped with some of the more impressive recent campaigns there. She’s only part-time because she’s young and not connected, but eventually someone’s going to realize that she knows what the hell she’s doing. I want to bring her on before that happens.”

Yang sits back and takes a sip of her beer, considering this. It’s a pretty big step, bringing in someone new, and she hadn’t realized they were there yet. But then, she hadn’t really realized it when they’d started either.

It goes like this: Ruby’s a genius with design, mechanics, and innovation. Yang can take the prototype and _make_ it, all the way from the wood and fiberglass and steel to the topsheet and graphics. And Weiss? Weiss had stumbled upon all of it and realized they were making snowboards from _scratch_ , then giving them away for pretty much nothing, and had promptly told them that they were crazy. From there, their small, custom-build business had formed, starting with a couple boards a year, and growing into a full-time, off-season job. But Weiss had always had bigger plans, and with only half a year left on her MBA, Yang really shouldn’t find it surprising that she’s ready to move onto the next step.

“Alright,” Yang says finally. “So this is, what? A job interview that you only told Ruby about?”

“No! I really _do_ want you two to meet her. It feels _weird_ to have my best friends not know anything about her. And… I have a _feeling_ you all will get along extremely well.” Weiss sets her hands in front of her, folding one over the other, but then realizes just how sticky the table is, and pulls both hands back into her lap with a low sound of disgust. “The marketing part is just a coincidence. A possibility.”

“I’m not _totally_ sure you didn’t scope this girl out after you saw Deer Valley come up with something that was actually cool for once, and _then_ befriend her, but sure. We’ll go with coincidence.”

“She definitely did that,” Ruby chimes in.

“Ruby!”

“Wow, Weiss. Way to tell Ruby literally everything when all I get is ‘don’t hit on her’.” Yang lunges across the table and snags the basket of brussels sprouts, popping one in her mouth. She doesn’t particularly enjoy the taste, but it’s a principle-of-the-matter sort of thing.

“I _was_ going to tell you both at the same time,” Weiss insists. “But then she did the _eye thing_.”

Ruby demonstrates it now, silver eyes widening with innocence in a way Yang or Weiss could never, ever pull off.

“What eye thing?” she asks.

“Fine, okay,” Yang sighs and reaches out to pinch her sister’s cheek; Ruby squeaks and squirms away, nearly spilling her beer in the process. “That’s fair.”  

“Also fair: me asking you to behave like a normal human being, starting now.” Weiss waves her hand high, gesturing at someone behind Yang’s back.

Ruby perks up, craning her neck to see, but Yang plays it cool, folding one arm over the other.

“Look, if you were this nervous about it, you could have prepped me a bit better for this _secret meeting_. I don’t even know this girl’s _name_.”

“It’s Blake,” a familiar voice sounds, just at her back. “Hello again, Yang.”

Yang turns, takes in the sight of the woman before her, and grins.

 

—

 

Naturally, everyone is delighted (or at least _amused_ ) with the situation except for Weiss, who, after Yang offers an enthusiastic explanation, puts her head in her hands and groans.  

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

“So, Blake,” Yang begins, taking her time with the name (savoring the roll of the syllables on her tongue). “Do you believe in destiny?”

“Oh my god, shut _up_ , Yang.”

There’s something about Blake’s smile — small and crooked as she watches the chaos in front of her — that makes Yang think she’s hiding multitudes, even if she can’t be sure why. It’s hard not to look forward to finding out more, especially when she looks just as good here, now, as she did earlier in her gear. The black and purple theme is repeated, if less obviously; tight black jeans and a dark purple, flowing top that cuts across her collarbones and dips low, catching Yang’s eye (though she valiantly fights giving into the impulse).

“Whoa, Weiss, no need for the hostility! If you’d told me literally _anything_ about your ski buddy before now, I might have recognized her on the slopes today. We could have avoided this whole situation.”

“Is this a situation?” Blake asks softly, fingers curling around the cup Ruby had poured for her as soon as she’d sat down, directly across from Yang.

“Oh, yeah,” Ruby says, words and expression full of mirth. “Yang was literally just talking about you. And then Weiss was talking about you. But they thought they were talking about different people. Because of the …” She gestures vaguely. “...situation.”

Weiss lifts her head, looks between Yang’s wide grin and Blake’s quiet amusement, and groans again.

“It’s _funny_ ,” Ruby summarizes.

“Glad to hear I made an impression.” Blake pauses, tilting her head. “Less glad to hear that Weiss hasn’t bothered mentioning me before now.”

“I like to keep my friend bubbles separate at the start!”

“Unless…” Yang leans forward onto her elbows, propping her chin on her folded hands, staring at Blake across the table. “Weiss _did_ talk about me, you _did_ recognize me earlier, and you were just messing with me. Maybe she said I was — oh, I dunno — a blonde goddess with impressive biceps and a winning smile? You would’ve been able to pick me out immediately.”

She flexes for emphasis. Blake _looks_ , so it counts as a win, even when Ruby actually joins Weiss in her grumbling this time (usually a pretty good sign Yang’s gone a bit too far).

“Mmm, no. Afraid not. The only thing Weiss told me about you was that both her roommates were ‘a lot’ and to apologize for your behavior in advance.”

“Weiss!” Ruby cries. "How could you include me in your insults about Yang?”

“You’ll notice she’s not actually telling Weiss to stop insulting me,” Yang drawls. “My sister, everyone!”

Weiss shoots Blake a look. “See? A _lot_.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I like it.” Blake smiles. “And I think they _both_ have pretty winning smiles.”

Ruby blushes bright red. Yang pumps her fist. Weiss looks annoyed.

“Though I only see the one pair of impressive biceps,” she continues, smile sliding into a smirk.

It’s clearly said as a means of teasing Weiss, but in Yang’s eyes, that makes it even better.

“Ugh. That’s because Yang’s never worn a shirt with sleeves in her entire life. Please don’t encourage her.”

“It’s also because she lifts weights,” Ruby adds helpfully. “And I mostly lift cookies.”

“The _only_ good thing about your mountain is that they let y’all have _vests_. I had make my own for Park City.”

Blake laughs, soft and short, but sweet as hell.

“I noticed. But, actually, I’m glad to hear you mention _my_ mountain. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be allowed to bring up Deer Valley tonight. Given your earlier reaction.”

Ruby and Weiss look at Yang expectantly.

“I don’t say it _every_ time, you guys. Besides, we have a _guest_. And I’m supposed to be on my best behavior.” She slides Weiss’s basket of brussels sprouts back across the table (an impressive peace offering, she thinks) and adopts her best approximation of a posh accent. “So please, tell us about yourself, Blake.”

It’s strange, the shift that occurs then: nothing particularly obvious — a slight stiffening in Blake’s posture, a downward flick of her eyes — but Yang takes note, curious.

“Well. I… work at Deer Valley, as you apparently know. I give lessons and help with some of the promotional materials, since I studied marketing in school.” She runs a finger around the rim of her cup, apparently uncertain how to continue. “Um. I grew up in Guaymas, right on the coastline of Mexico.”

“Kind of a weird place to churn out a skier,” Ruby says with a laugh. “Especially a skier good enough to keep up with Weiss! Wouldn’t _water_ skiing have been easier?”

“Yeah, probably.” Blake relaxes, just slightly, letting out a soft snort of amusement, and Yang feels a rush of affection for her younger sister and her ability to make anyone feel at ease. “My dad’s family is all in Europe — the whole Belladonna clan — so we spent a lot of winter seasons there. I was homeschooled, which made it easier to travel a lot.”

“Blake and I skied some of the same mountains as kids,” Weiss says. “We could have been at Les Trois Vallées at the exact same time.”

“So fucking fancy,” Yang scoffs, without any heat. “The slope Ruby and me grew up on had like, one and a half lifts. We had to make our own terrain park.”

Ruby nods enthusiastically. “Until Yang started getting _crazy good_ and we moved somewhere she could really train.”

“Well, I guess. And Dad was ready to start riding again, too,” Yang adds reflexively, before realizing that’s not exactly a story for a new friend. “But yeah, we got the hell out of Shitsville, North Dakota and moved to Utah. Been here ever since.”

She leans back in her chair, folding her hands behind her head, before adding, “Luckily for the ladies of Park City.”

“Unluckily for _me_ ,” Weiss sighs.

“Oh, bullshit. Before Ruby and me came along you were an even bigger loser than you are now. It was totally tragic.”

“How _did_ you all meet?” Blake asks, lips twitching. “It’s a little hard to imagine.”

Ruby sighs, like she’d rather not tell the story. “I ran into her.”

“Literally,” Weiss adds, voice flat.

“It was in high school. We got the day off because there’d been a huge dump the night before and it just kept _coming_. I don’t even know how we made it to the slope alive, because the roads were shit, but there was so much snow that we weren’t about to pass it up.”

“We went to the terrain park; Yang was working on her frontside double cork, but it was kind of hard to see ‘cause of all the snow coming down still, and when I hit a ramp, I didn’t realize these kids were sitting _right there_ under it — ”

“Idiots,” Weiss scoffs.

“ — so I had to swerve really bad to the right and _then_ hit a patch of ice.”

“You know how the park in Canyons blends into that blue trail on the side?” Yang asks.

“Echo,” Weiss clarifies (because _of course_ she knows the name of every trail on the mountain), and Blake nods.

“Well, Weiss had been cutting across it and Ruby just…” Yang bangs her fists together and makes an explosion sound. “It was _nasty_.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Ruby objects, pretty weakly.

“Weiss pretty much forced Ruby to follow her down the lodge to fill out an accident report so she could like, sue her, or whatever,” Yang continues, laughing loudly.

“Sometimes injuries are only apparent the day after!”

“Anyways, while they were filling out paperwork, Ruby offered to make it up to Weiss by taking a look at her skis and seeing if she could make any improvements, because that’s sort of what Ruby _does_ , even back when she was a little squirt, and Weiss laughed in her face because she didn’t think her skis could be improved — ”

“They were _extremely_ expensive K2s.”

“ — But then Ruby started going on about the super specific quirks of that super specific model, Weiss was impressed, blah blah blah some time passed, Ruby designed Weiss a new pair of skis, Weiss recognized they were _clearly_ superior to her old ones, and then decided to be our friend.”

Story finished, Yang leans back into her chair, rocking onto the back legs once more, and drains the rest of her beer.

“Wow,” Blake says, a soft laugh slipping through her lips. “I thought Weiss was the only skier in the group, though.”

“She is! But, _oh_ , you mean because we made Weiss _skis_?” Ruby smiles and jerks her thumb in Yang’s direction. “That’s just because Yang can make _anything_.”

Yang’s smile is fond. “No, it’s because Ruby can _design_ anything. But, she can also ski. Just prefers the obviously superior option.”

“She can ski. _Technically_ ,” Weiss clarifies. “It’s like watching a car crash _almost_ happen, over and over again. Sometimes she just… randomly picks up one of her skis. For no reason! Just goes down the mountain on one leg.”

“It’s boring otherwise! And it’s not like I fall!”

“Proof that miracles _do_ exist.”

“Or magic, which is objectively cooler and — ” Yang claps her hands together once, entire face lighting up. “That gives me a _brilliant_ idea.”

Blake’s face scrunches in confusion, but she’s the only one; Ruby grins, much like her sister, and Weiss sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between thumb and index finger.

“Yang, I swear to _god_.”

“Port!” She yells, lifting her hand and waving it in the general direction of the bar. “I need a deck of cards!”

It only takes a moment before one appears, sailing over a few tables before landing on their own, narrowly avoiding landing in the pitcher; Yang gives the bartender — a man with a mustache that takes up most of his face — a thumbs-up, then takes the deck and holds it up, expression turning serious as she stares across the table.

“Blake, this is a crucial moment in what could be a _beautiful_ friendship, okay?”

Blake presses her smile into a thin line. “Mmhmm. Okay.”

“Do you… like magic?”

“Please say no,” Weiss pleads.

“Please say _yes_!” Ruby shouts.

“I suppose I’m undecided,” Blake begins slowly, the bemusement clear on her face. “It’s never made an impression one way or the other.”

Yang smiles, sliding the cards out of their package and flipping them around with practiced ease. It’s a little entrancing to watch, Yang’s well aware, and maybe she’s spent an embarrassing number of hours watching YouTube videos, making sure of it. Still, it’s hard to feel any regret when Blake watches her hands with a glint in her eyes that hits Yang like a fucking truck when she looks up again.

“Please remember you were my friend _first_ , Blake. And that Yang does this with literally _every_ girl she has even a _modicum_ of interest in — ” Weiss bites the inside of her cheek, eyes lifting towards the ceiling as she cuts herself off. “ — getting to _know_.”

“It’s so cool though!” Ruby insists. “And _this_ time I’m gonna figure out how she does it.”

“So what d’you say, Blake?” Yang splits the deck with one hand, spinning half of it under the other without glancing away from the woman across the table.

“I guess you can _try_ to make up my mind.” She quirks an eyebrow. “One way or another.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

Blake leans forward, nudging the pitcher aside and clearing a space in the middle of the table, which she gestures towards, corner of her lip curling. “Maybe it is.”

“Good thing I’m not one to back down from one.” Yang winks and places the deck in the center of the table, then cracks her fingers. “You wanna inspect it?”

“I do!” Ruby grabs the cards before Blake can even consider it, and she and Yang exchange an amused glance as Ruby shuffles through the deck with a look of utter concentration.

Despite herself, Weiss leans forward as well. “I’ve never had a chance to try to figure it out myself,” she admits, pursing her lips. “I’m sure there’s a _simple_ trick behind it. Ruby, show us.”

Ruby flips the cards around and spreads out the deck; Yang waits another few moments as they all observe the (by all appearances) perfectly normal deck before snatching it out of Ruby’s hand and shuffling it once more.

“Satisfied?”

“Hardly,” Weiss sniffs, but Blake nods, eyes narrowed slightly as she watches the movement of the cards between Yang’s fingers.

“Alright, then.” She spins the deck again, then spreads it out between her hands. “Pick a card.”

“Seriously?” Blake lets out a soft snort, clearly having expected something more complex, but Yang just lifts her eyebrows once, up and down. “Alright then.”

She considers the deck carefully, but finally picks one of the cards from the front, sitting back and cupping it between her hands to peek. Weiss and Ruby both lean over, and she tilts it in both of their directions, watching Yang, who’s absentmindedly shuffling the deck once more, with suspicion.

“Got it?” Yang asks with a smile, leaning forward and spreading the deck out once more.

“We’ve got it,” Weiss sniffs. “And can we please skip the — ”

Ruby hushes her, with flapping hands and a loud shushing noise, and Weiss rolls her eyes, but falls silent. Blake glances back and forth between the two, but still leans forward, card extended between two fingers, and starts to slide it between the middle of the deck.

“ _Oh my god!_ What’s _that_?” Yang shouts, eyes going wide.

Several people turn in the bar turn, including Blake, until she realizes what’s going on and snaps her head back to find Yang twisting her neck underneath her card to take a peek.

“Really?” she asks, and moves to draw back her card. Before she can, Yang splits the deck and slaps both halves on either side of it, snagging the card out of Blake’s hands as she pulls back.

“What?” Her expression is all innocence.

Blake glances at Weiss and then Ruby, who are watching Yang more closely than ever, and finally just shrugs. “Nothing, nothing. Please continue with this _masterful_ demonstration.”

“Thank you,” Yang returns, expression and tone mild as she springs the whole of the deck from one hand to the other. “Now, through _magic_ I’m going to figure out the _exact_ card you had in your hand. But you have to think about it _really_ hard, okay? Envision it in your mind.”

“Alright. I’m envisioning it.”

“You sure?”

“Mmhmm.”

Yang performs another fancy little shuffle, but then, when the moment is _just_ at its peak, deflates, sighing and closing her hands around the whole of the deck as she leans back.

“Aw, man.” She shakes her head and looks up, eyes wide and remorseful. “You know what? I’ve gotta come clean. Since we’re new friends and everything. Look, Blake, I totally cheated.”

“You don’t say,” Blake returns, voice dry.

“Yeah.” Yang sighs. “I was trying to impress you, so I cheated. I wanted to make sure that your card would come up on top when I did the trick so I…”

She trails off, placing the deck directly on the table and flips over the top card. It’s Blake’s, she knows, given the quick jut of the woman’s eyebrows. But it’s when she flips the _next_ card that she _really_ gets her, amusement dropping from her face as her eyes widen.

Because the next card is her card too.

“... I turned _every_ card into yours,” Yang continues, flipping over one card after the other, each one the exact same Queens of Spades. “Every. Single. One. I’m _such_ a cheater.”

Blake looks up at her mouth slightly open, and Yang’s grin spreads nice and slow as she holds her gaze.

The moment is interrupted by Ruby lunging for the discarded cards, but Yang scoops them back up before she can manage it, smile still present, mind still on the woman in front of her.

“Dammit, Yang! Let me see them!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she tsks. “The trick is over. Did you figure it out?”

“You know I didn’t!”

“Weiss?”

Weiss rolls her eyes again, crossing one arm over the other. “You’re the worst, Yang.”

“You love me.” Yang sing-songs, slipping the card deck into her pocket (to return to Port later), and glancing back over at Blake, who seems to have recovered enough to lose her absolutely _adorable_ look of surprise. Not that she can complain given what’s replaced it: a narrowed look of concentration that has Yang reaching for her drink.

“So how _did_ you do it?”

The quiet tone only adds to the appeal of Blake’s expression, in Yang’s mind.

Still, she holds strong. “Aw, you know what they say about magicians and their tricks.”

“She _never_ tells us,” Ruby pouts. “I ask all the time.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Blake’s lower lip catches between her teeth (briefly) as her smile spreads, and Yang feels her whole heart rattle in her chest. “In the right situation, I think she just might tell _me_.”

(Yang doesn’t doubt that for a _second_.)

And, shit.

Weiss is going to _murder her_.

 

—

 

“What did I say, Yang? _What did I say_?”

It’s almost impressive, really, that Weiss waits until now — when Yang’s pushing through the front door of their shared apartment — to confront her, hands on her hips as she stands in the middle of the living room. _Almost_ , because it’s pretty much the first time she’s had the opportunity to do so, what with them having taken separate cars to Beacon that night, but Yang figures she _could_ have ambushed her in the parking lot outside, so it still counts as something.

“You said, ‘don’t hit on her’,” Yang returns, dutiful, if not for the happy little sigh she lets out afterwards, taking several steps into the room and collapsing onto the couch, face-first. “But I did. A lot.”

“You hit on her the _whole time_. Even the fucking card trick! Honestly!”

“To be fair,” Ruby chimes in, shutting the front door with a gentle kick (which Yang had utterly failed to even consider). “You didn’t know Blake was the skier from earlier. You have to admit that changes things a _little_ , Weiss. Right?”

If Weiss gives a response, Yang doesn’t hear it; she flops onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, feeling vaguely high.

“I think I’m in love,” she sighs, hands slipping behind her head.  

Her view (such as it is) is obstructed almost immediately by Ruby and Weiss, peering over the back of the couch. The former looks amused, the latter skeptical.

“Uh oh,” Ruby says.

“Oh, _please_ ,” Weiss scoffs.

“No, no, I think this is genuine love-struck Yang.” Ruby reaches down to poke at her cheek; Yang swats the finger away halfheartedly, crooked little smile unaffected by the proding. “Aw, it’s so _weird_.”

“I just think she’s, like, hot and funny and perfect in every way, or whatever.” She sighs again, stretching her legs out and letting them drop back down again, unconcerned with the silence that follows her statement and the blatant look Ruby and Weiss exchange.

“Oh my god.”

“ _Told_ you!”

Yang flicks them both in the nose as she sits up. Ruby draws back with a giggle, but Weiss attempts to return the favor; she misses when Yang ducks out of the way with a wink.

“I’m joking! Mostly! Probably like, at least fifty-one percent joking.”

Or. Maybe not quite that much. Yang can’t remember the last time she looked at someone and wanted to know _everything_ : their life, their favorite band, what made them smile, their _story_ ; the last time she exchanged a look and felt it sink into her, latch onto something important and refuse to let go. It feels _big_ , in a way she doesn’t know how to categorize and thinks is probably stupid or weird, and knows is easier to pass off as a joke.

(Her blood is already laced with Blake Belladonna, just one glance and she’s in Yang’s veins; she knows it can’t be love, but it might be the start of something just as consuming.)

“Well, just in case you _aren’t_ ,” Weiss begins, words hesitant and careful, even as she slips off into the adjoining kitchen. “You should know that Blake is… complicated.”

“Complicated?” Yang asks. “What does that mean?”

Ruby hops over the back of the couch and lands on the seat cushion next to her, bouncing slightly with the movement, but looking just as curious as Yang feels when the silence stretches out longer than seems typical.   

“I don’t know all the details,” Weiss finally says, returning to the room with three glasses of water pressed between her hands. “Or _any_ of them. Just that she’s not really the _relationship_ type.”

“As opposed to all of us, who are dating people left and right?” Yang barely holds back a laugh. “Or, wait, are we counting that blind date you went on with that girl from Alta? You lasted, what, five minutes before you made Ruby call you with an ‘emergency’?”

Neither Weiss or Ruby look particularly pleased that she’s brought it up, though the former busies herself with handing each of them a drink and settling in on the couch.

“I’m _busy_ ,” Weiss huffs. “Ruby says she hasn’t found anyone she connects with since Penny. And you…” She trails off, giving Yang a look that has her finally releasing that laugh. “You do you _own thing_.”

“Oh, wow, Weiss. Sound more judgemental, why don’t you?”

“I’m not judging! I’m just saying that Blake is different.” She sighs. “I’ve seen her get hit on a lot — guys and girls — but this is the first time she’s _ever_ seemed into it.”

Yang’s pretty undeterred at _that_ . “Doesn’t that just mean she has _taste_?”

“No! God, Yang, that’s _so_ not what I meant.” She looks down at her glass, fingers sliding over the rim as her forehead pinches, lips turning downwards. It’s enough to make Yang settle back and wait, exchanging a quick look with her sister.

“What is it, Weiss?” Ruby asks, voice soft.

“I don’t know. It’s just a _feeling_ I get sometimes. Blake and I skied together all of last Spring, but she’s private; she’s never said anything outright, but… I think maybe she had a _difficult_ relationship with someone. In the past.”

It’s a phrasing Yang knows well, because Weiss, on the rare occasions she talks about her early home life, uses it often. Yang feels something in her chest tighten, a swell of anger on behalf of her best friend (and her new one). It must show on her face (and it _definitely_ shows on Ruby’s) because Weiss glances between the both of them and shakes her head.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m not even sure — look, I don’t know if I’m right. I’m not saying you should treat her differently. I’m only — ” Weiss shrugs, a little helpless. “Just be careful, Yang. Flirting and whatever is one thing, but I’m not sure anything else is a good idea.”  

She pauses, expression shifting away from the one urging gentle caution and towards one Yang likes a whole lot less.

“And not just because of _that_. Because of what I told you _earlier_. Remember? When I said _not_ to hit on the woman who’s a _potential business partner_?”

“I thought we decided that was okay because she was The Ski Girl,” Ruby says, scratching her head in confusion.

“ _You_ decided that, Ruby!”

“Okay, okay,” Yang cuts in. “The hitting on happened and if _Blake_ wants, it’s gonna continue to happen, so _chill_ , Weiss.” She pauses. “Look, though, I get what you’re saying, okay? About both things. And I know you’re just looking out for your friends. But I’m not a _total_ idiot! I can be careful.”

Probably, Yang thinks. She can _probably_ be careful.

(Unless Blake looks at her with that smile — the slow one with a hint of teeth —  and asks her not to be.)

“Great!” Ruby chirps, holding up her water glass in a solitary sort of toast. “Weiss will stop being not chill and Yang will be careful and Blake will be our friend! And maybe our brand manager!”

“Fuck yeah!” Yang agrees, mainly to annoy Weiss, who rolls her eyes. “So let’s call her!”

Weiss drops her head back against the couch and groans (and _yeah_ , the suggestion had _also_ been mostly to annoy her, but Yang _hardly_ thinks it’s a bad idea).  

“We _just_ saw her.”

“But we didn’t invite her to hit up the mountain with us tomorrow, which was totally dumb, because what’s a better way of getting to know someone?” Yang sits up and grabs her phone out of her back pocket and scrolls through her contacts, selecting Blake’s without any hesitation.

“When did you even get her number?” Weiss sighs.

“When you were in the bathroom,” Ruby says, and Yang sticks her tongue out at her.

“Tattler.”

She’s about to say more, but after three rings, Blake answers, tone cool and amused; it sends a familiar little bolt down Yang’s spine, so apparently _that_ can happen without even being in the woman’s presence (not a great sign, as far as future self-control goes).

“Am I just supposed to refer to you as ‘blonde buff goddess’, then?”

Oh. _That_ was something Yang _might_ have forgotten she’d done when entering her contact information into Blake’s phone.

“I mean, you can call me anything you _want_.”

She really hopes Weiss’s groan is _not_ audible on Blake’s end.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says with a soft laugh. “What can I do for you, Yang? Are you trying to prove that you’re not the type of girl to play hard to get?”

“Never really saw the point in playing games.” She manages a casual tone. Sort of. Mostly. “Just wanted to invite you to join us tomorrow. We’re hitting up the mountain after our lessons finish up. Figured you might wanna try out slumming it with two riders. And Weiss.”

“I guess that doesn’t sound like a terrible time. I should be able to make it over there around 1:00.”

“Awesome!” She offers a thumbs up to Weiss and Ruby, who are watching her with vastly different expressions. “Wanna meet outside of Miner’s Camp? We can head up Silverlode from there. Maybe go up to Jupe, if you feel like _really_ seeing me in action.”

“Probably for the best. If you can’t keep up, I shouldn’t waste any more of my time,” Blake teases. “See you at one. I’m sure I’ll spot the only person around without sleeves easily enough.”   

“What can I say? I’ve got a good look.”

Her laugh is soft, but hits Yang hard. “Bye, Yang. See you tomorrow.”

Blake hangs up then, and _yeah._

Yang’s fucking doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few things about this:  
> 1) I'm a skier (which is why I know all skiers are nerds), but I wanted to write from Yang's POV for this fic (since I wrote from Blake's in the last one). Since Yang is OBVIOUSLY a snowboarder, that meant I had to get a little outside my comfort zone. If any snowboarder is reading this, I'm so sorry. Let me know if I've messed up any of your stuff!  
> 2) Normally, I (mostly) finish writing something before starting to post it, but I'm not doing that here. That means y'all are going to have to hold me accountable for getting this thing done. But it has to be the sort of accountability one might apply towards a tiny, baby kitten who is afraid of loud noises and responsibilities. You feel me? The good news is that I know where this is going and I'm guessing it'll be 8-ish chapters.  
> 3) The card trick Yang does in this chapter is real! I just have no idea how it works. When I was in college some dude did it for me and it was the most effectively I have ever been hit on. Here's to you, James.  
> 4) Deer Valley and Park City Mountain Resort are real places, and Deer Valley is actually an incredible mountain to ski on. Apologies for all of Yang's trash talking about it, it couldn't be helped.  
> 5) The title of this fic is from 'Son of a Sun' by Jain. The full playlist can be found [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/hmdesi/playlist/4VFw2kvQXMiO3t07Ic5086?si=fSaUrnaxSwSgfhB68X6pnA)!


	2. they got my heart

 

  _They got my blood up in their veins_  
_I get a cut, they feel my pain_  
_They got my heart, they got my soul_  
_They know the stuff nobody knows_

 [Mother Mother, _Family_ ]

_—_

 

The temperature dips the next day, enough so that Yang might have considered wearing a thermal top under her vest if Blake hadn’t made such a point about the lack of one. That, and it’s the first time Blake’s going to be seeing her in her _actual_ gear: black helmet with a swirling gold dragon she’d painted on herself, yellow and black block-pattern vest, and some truly kickass goggles that changed tint with the touch of a button (shifting from a light lilac to a dark red, to better suit different lighting conditions), and she’s not about to wimp out of flaunting _all_ of it.

She looks _good_ , basically, and hardly thinks it’s a crime to recognize it, even if Weiss keeps giving her this _look_ like she shouldn’t. As if _Weiss_ has any room to talk, leaning up against her poles in her ridiculous all-white attire, ponytail draped artfully (and purposefully) over her shoulder.

“You actually _look_ like you’re posing, you know,” she says, tugging down her scarf (white, of course) to reveal a little smirk.

“And _you_ look like you’re about to do a photoshoot for _I Own Seven Yachts and Don’t Believe in Paying Taxes_ magazine.”

“ _You Really Should Have Thought of_ That _Before You Became Poor_ Digest?” Ruby suggests.

“ _It’s One Ski Chalet. What Could it Cost? Ten Million Dollars?_ Weekly.”

“Oh, you two are _hilarious_ ,” Weiss drawls, slicing at the snowpile in front of her with her pole. “And so original.”

Ruby dodges the incoming snow with a little hop, laughter sliding into a lighter giggle, then brightens even further, catching sight of something over Yang’s shoulder.

“Blake! You made it! And, _oh_ , you gear _is_ cool! What kind of skis are those? Oh! Are they Zero Gs? I’ve never seen anyone use them before! Will it weird you out if I ride behind you? You don’t mind the turning radius? How much do they weigh?”

When Yang turns, Blake is laughing, the lift of her lips just visible between her goggles and neck warmer, and Yang’s heart rate picks up in the same way it does when she’s standing at the top of a slope, ready to fling herself down.

“Yes, they’re Zero Gs; no, it won’t weird me out; I prefer a short turn radius; and they're really light, a little under six pounds.” She turns her smile to Weiss and then Yang; it’s hard not to read into the way it shifts into something a little crooked towards the end. “I thought I should prepare for sidecountry, since Yang threatened to put me through the paces.”

“Not threatened! _Offered_ ,” Yang insists, smile twisting in the same way. “I’m all about _mutual_ pleasure, Blake.”

“Oh good,” Weiss sighs. “Glad we’re starting out with this right away.”

Ruby slides past her, cutting the snow alongside Blake as she skids to a stop and bends down, brushing some of the powder off the woman’s skis. “You like narrower skis? Are these 85s? 95s? Are your normal downhills a lot wider?”

Another laugh pops out of Blake’s mouth, more fleeting than the puff of condensation that results from the exhale.

“How are you _both_ so impossible? Can we stop with the flirting and the inspecting long enough to actually _ski_?” Weiss gestures towards the lift behind her, flinging her arm out with an impressive level of drama.

“Don’t mind, Weiss.” Yang tilts her head, watching Ruby as she blows some snow off Blake’s bindings to take a closer look. “She likes to pretend she doesn't love us. It’s part of her whole Ice Queen thing.”

“Well, we _are_ here to ski,” Blake says. “Or so I was lead to believe. But when we take our first break, my skis are all yours, Ruby. And… I’ll be disappointed if you can’t flirt and ride at the same time, Yang.”

Yang winks before she pulls down her goggles, flicking her board downhill with a (maybe _slightly_ exaggerated) roll of her hips. “I can flirt while doing a lot of things.”   

Laughter follows her (along with one of Weiss’s poles, knocking harmlessly against her thigh as she passes by), and she makes sure to put on as much of a show as she can on the gentle hill that leads to the lift, spinning a few 360s on the way down. Weiss skis past her while she’s messing around, purposefully kicking up a bit of snow as she does, and Ruby hops over the tail of her board as it swings by. Blake just slides calmly down, though, ending up in the lift line last. Yang flicks out of her back bindings with no small amount of haste so she can skate into the far left gate, right alongside her; it’s not particularly subtle, but Yang’s never been _that_ , and Blake’s curling smile rewards her anyways.

“What are we going for first?” Ruby asks, skating in next to Weiss. “If we do the bowl can can go back up Conk and head into Black Forest.”

The suggestion wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else, but it makes Yang and Weiss exchange a look behind Blake’s back as they move into the loading area of the lift. Black Forest is a difficult trail, full of tightly placed trees, lifting banks, and a few great places to hit a jump. It’s also Ruby’s go-to for studying someone’s style, the first place she takes someone when she’s thinking of designing a board or skis. Seeing as she’s only just met Blake and has yet to see her on an actual run, the surprise feels warranted, even if it’s mixed with satisfaction, on Yang’s part.

(It’s nice to know it’s not just her who looks at Blake and feels caught in something — the twisting current of a riptide — who feels like she should be looking _closer_ , finding out more. Ruby sees a new skier to design for, a new style to discover, a new friend that doesn’t mind when her enthusiasm runs unchecked. Yang’s not sure what she sees yet, but she knows it’s all that and more.)  

“I like Black Forest,” Blake says, tone warm with the recollection. “So that works for me.”

The lift is made to fit six people, but no one joins them. It feels strange, suddenly being in a group of four — taking up enough of a bench to not automatically pick up another group — but it’s only strange in how easy it all is, like everything is a little more balanced because of it. The chair swings around the bend and Yang flops back onto it, right arm automatically stretching across the back of the seat as they leave the ground before she remembers _caution_ and boundaries, and uses it to pull down the safety bar instead, letting her hand drop in her lap afterwards. At the first gust of wind, though, it’s Blake that shifts closer, ducking her shoulder, a small shiver traversing her frame, leaning towards the warmth of Yang’s side.

“Oh, come on. It’s not even below twenty-five,” she teases gently. “And the sun’s out!”

Blake grumbles softly. (Like most things Blake does, Yang finds it unbearably cute.) “When Weiss was making fun of you for the sleeves thing, I thought it was because you liked showing off the tattoo. Not that you were just a human space heater.”

“It’s _both_ ,” Weiss clarifies, skis knocking against the side of the footrest as she props them up, snow falling to the trail below.

“You like it?” She lifts her right arm, brushing up against Blake’s jacket, showing off the lines of ink _and_ the warmth of her skin.

“Mm.” Blake stretches a hand out, glove hovering over one of the several dark bands spaced out unevenly along Yang’s arm, but doesn’t make contact. “I do. It looks like it has a story.”

It’s unclear if she’s asking for that story, or merely stating the reason she likes the tattoo itself, but Yang thinks it’s probably a little of both; she’s gotten used to telling the short version, but as she leans in to explain, Blake’s eyes focused only on her, she thinks maybe that won’t be the one she shares here.

“I was in a bad accident a while ago.” She’s still going for a casual tone — ignoring the parts of it she’s _dealt_ with and refused to revisit — and it works for the most part, if not for Ruby and Weiss’s loud silence. “Like, fell-off-a-mountain kind of accident. I had a lot of injuries all over the place because of it, but the worst was that it super fucked up my arm. Broke it in more places than the doctors here had ever seen. I was like, a celebrity at the hospital, honestly. I think they wrote a paper about it.” A smile twitches into place, joke familiar and tired. “But it wasn’t a great time. I couldn’t ride and — um — I’d been riding a _lot_ before that. Training for like, bigger stuff. And the accident kind of ended all that.”

Unable to hold her tongue any longer, Weiss cuts in, tone heated. “She had a shot at the _Olympics_ before that asshole — ”

“Weiss,” Ruby mumbles, a soft warning, and the two fall back into that heavy silence.

Beside her, Blake is still, tension shooting through her frame at the interruption, and Yang isn’t able to keep her right hand from curling into and out of a fist, in quick succession. It’s funny, really, how thinking about it in just the right (wrong?) way could still hurt. (Funny, because even back then, years after her surgeries, the doctors had always told her there wasn’t a reason she should be feeling pain at all anymore. She’d stopped mentioning it after a while, tired of the word _psychosomatic_.)

“The tattoos helped,” she says, quieter now, not quite finding her earlier (carefully constructed) indifference. “I designed them when I was supposed to be resting. When I was going through the worst of the physical therapy at the start. They had to put a bunch of screws and plates and shit in during all the surgeries so…”

She points at the band circling her wrist, then gestures upwards along the length of her arm;  each strip holds gears and pistons and wires drawn on her skin, snapshots of what she had imagined lying underneath in her more fanciful moments.

“Once I got the go-ahead from the docs, I got an armband at each break or wherever they had to put junk in. It felt… good. I mean, it _hurt_ , but… ” She smiles; it’s much too sharp to be comforting, to take back what’s she’s exposed. “It was probably less expensive than going to _actual_ therapy, at least.”

Blake doesn’t laugh, but when she pushes her goggles up there’s none of the pity Yang has seen a million times before (and hated on every occasion), just a sad sort of understanding.

“Everyone has their way of dealing with things,” she murmurs. “Looks like you found the best one for you.”

She says it with the weight of someone who’s had to figure out her own. Yang’s chest constricts, tight enough to halt her breathing, tight enough to hurt (or maybe that’s something else entirely).

“And you managed to find a way to make something beautiful out of it,” Blake continues, even softer now. “Not an easy thing.”

“Thanks.” The word is barely a rasp, something to fill the silence (a thick coating on the air, concentrated in the small space between them).

Blake nods, eyes still on Yang, and it’s only Ruby, softly announcing the end of the lift, that breaks their connecting gaze, both women jerking their heads to face forward, the nearly tangible line between them snapping.

“Blueslip Bowl to Pioneer, then down to the lift?” Weiss asks (like nothing whatsoever had just happened, like she hadn’t noticed things _tilt_ ) and Yang doesn’t have to look to know she’s charting her exact course, finger tracing over an imaginary trail map in the air front of her.

(And Yang _doesn’t_ look, because if she glances in that direction, she knows she’ll get caught again, snagged on Blake’s form.)

“Yeah!” Ruby hops a little in her seat, jostling the chair, and pushes the safety bar back. “No race though, ‘cause they haven’t trimmed back the brush much.”

Weiss scoffs, tossing her ponytail back. “You just know you’d lose.”

“I will not be baited!” Ruby declares as she jumps off the lift and slides down — only to call back over her shoulder once she’s a little further away, “Until later. When I’m gonna kick your ass!”

The banter barely registers with Yang, still in a bit of a daze as she pops her boot into her rear binding and follows the group towards the bowl, weaving between the various people loitering around the ridge of the slope. It’s a practice Weiss has always despised, so it’s hardly a surprise when she skies past the small crowd and dips down into the bowl without word or pause. She slips right into the thick of the moguls on the right side, weaving around the bumps with a finesse that Yang has only seen a few people match.

“Always with the moguls.” Ruby shakes her head, expression full of affection.

Yang shrugs, but smiles, the sight familiar enough to put her back on solid ground. “She knows what she’s about.” Turning a little, she finds Blake, watching the sight with an expression similar to Ruby’s. “What about you, Blake? Are you _that_ level of masochistic?”

She doesn’t get a response other than a soft laugh, though Blake answers well enough when she pushes off, cutting back and forth along the left side of the bowl before hitting the first jump she can find, skis lifting _beautifully_ off the ground and jutting to the side in an effortless shifty that nearly takes Yang’s breath away.

(So much for solid ground.)

“ _Shit_.”

She doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until Ruby glances over at her, amusement plain on her face.

_Whatever_. It’s not like she’s the only one appreciative of the jump; a couple of the guys next to her let out a few yells of support when Blake continues down the rest of the slope in a similar manner — all grace and ease. It’s just _that_ gorgeous to watch.

“So,” she breathes. “You’re designing her skis, right.”

It’s not really a question, but Ruby still nods.

“They aren’t going to be anything like what we’ve done before. Look at her turns! The way she hit that jump.” It’s clear Ruby’s mind is racing through all the possibilities, caught up in her own excitement, and Yang hardly needs to be pulled along, already _right_ there with her.

_God_. Of course she is.

“There’s something about her.” It feels weird to say aloud, and she licks her lips in her discomfort, bites briefly at the bottom one. “Something like — I dunno.”

She wouldn’t say it in front of Weiss, not with the same earnestness, but with Ruby, she knows she’ll find understanding, even if they’re coming at the concept from different angles.

“She’s like — do you remember what I said to you? After we met Weiss?” Ruby’s eyes are wide (and still excited) as she watches Blake’s form — a flash of black and purple — disappear around the bend.

“Yeah.” Of course she does; the memory is tucked carefully away, slotted against a wall of her heart, almost integral to the structure by now. “You think it’s like that?”

( _Weiss stormed out of the lodge, face twisted into an unpleasant mix of pride and contempt, leaving behind an undeterred Ruby and a bemused Yang, but also her phone number, tapped into Ruby’s phone with more than a little disdain_

_“That girl — ” Yang shook her head, ready to brush the whole encounter off. “ — is a bitch.”_

_But Ruby — already planning, already aware — just smiled._

_“Nah,” she said, so sure. “She’s going to be our best friend.”_ )

“Uh huh.” It’s not anything like self-consciousness that has Ruby scrunching up her face, nose wrinkling — not really —  but she still turns to Yang, seeking some kind of validation. “Is it weird?”

Yang shrugs and swivels her board around, starting down the slope. “Yeah! It’s always been weird,” she calls, smile negating any of the innate harshness of the words. “But this time, I’m gonna lean into it.”

(Hard. She’s going to lean into it hard. It’s the only way she possibly can.)

 

—

 

Yang doesn’t care how dramatic and stupid it sounds: watching Blake ski is a revelation.

She’s seen thousands of people ski (and ski well) — Pyrrha and Weiss and Jaune and Ren — but Blake skis in a way Yang’s never seen before, never even knew existed. There’s a bias, she knows (a bias that has something to do with the way looking at Blake makes her heart leap around in her chest like a toddler on fucking energy drinks), but she’s also pretty sure there’s a lot of truth to the observation, even on top of all of that. Weiss skis beautifully — wide arcing turns and perfectly parallel skis — like she’s managed to bend the light and air around her to match the way a scene might be set for a movie star.

But _Blake_. _God_ , Blake is another sort entirely. She cuts across the snow with sharp, small turns, never telegraphed in the way Yang has come to expect from riding with skiers. She hits jumps and slides between trees and rarely slows down before doing either. Blake skis like something is chasing her, maybe, but with a clear understanding that, whatever it is, it’ll never manage to catch up. Even the light can barely manage it, bending around her in strange ways that has her shadowing flickering in and out, tricking the eye into thinking it’s going in a direction that Blake isn’t, or maybe vice versa. There’s no recklessness there — her control is clearly rigid — but it feels just on the _verge_ of it. Like if Blake lapsed in concentration for even a second, she would spiral off the edge and lose control completely.

It’s fucking _breathtaking_ , honestly, and Yang’s never been _less_ focused on her own riding than when they’re in Black Forest, following the trail that Blake’s forging between obstacles with as much fluidity as she’s even seen in a skier.

(Yang might almost run into a tree. Or three.)

By the time they take a break, hitting up the restaurant at the closest summit, Yang is more smitten than ever, but compared to Ruby — visibly vibrating with excitement — she’s downright subtle about it.

“Blake,” Ruby says, eyes bright. “We’re _definitely_ making you skis.”

The flash of emotion across Blake’s face — surprise and an oddly harsh spark of disbelief — is easy to see, now that they’ve shed the upper layer of their gear (helmets and goggles and gloves all piled into the spare chair at the table).

“I — we just met.”

Yang grabs a fry from the center basket and tosses it upwards, following the arc and catching it with (what she would call) finesse. “Eh, when you know, you know. And Ruby always knows.”

“I… don’t understand.”

Blake’s voice is soft in a way that’s different from before, like the idea of someone wanting to do something for her is utterly incomprehensible. Yang thinks Ruby must recognize it as she does (must think back to the start of their friendship with Weiss) and she’s glad when her sister continues, much in the same way she had then (quiet but sure).

“I can tell we’re going to be friends,” she says simply. “And we make skis or boards for all our friends.”

“Simple as that,” Yang adds with a little wink.

“I have always admired Weiss’s,” Blake admits with a small smile, though it’s directed at the table top, where she’s pushed together a small pile of Parmesan cheese that had fallen off their pizza. “How much do you guys charge?”

Ruby shakes her head hard enough to move the whole of her chair, legs squeaking up against the wooden floor of the cafeteria. “Oh! No, that’s not what this is.”

“To be clear, that’s _normally_ what this is,” Weiss adds, not even bothering to hide her smile, directed at Blake as it is. “Not that anyone would have known it before _I_ came along. But now, on _rare_ occasion, they decide that they want to take on a project, and when that happens, it’s not a simple monetary transaction.”

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” Ruby asks. “I know it’s kind of weird, but sometimes I meet someone and I just _have_ to design something for them. Or I’ll _die_.”

Ruby’s tone is playful, but it’s probably not too far off the mark. Whatever Blake says now, Yang’s pretty sure Ruby is going to be planning these skis in her sleep for the next week or two.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you can pick up the material cost,” Yang suggests. “Or return the favor sometime. Our friend Ren made us this _awesome_ meal that was like, six courses or something, after we made him skis.”

“I’m really not much of a chef.” The shocked expression finally lifts as Blake lets out a laugh that most certainly holds a story (a story that Yang can’t wait to one day hear). “But I’ll definitely think of _something_. This is really… “ She shrugs, looking back down. “I don’t really know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Yang’s tone is purposefully light, moving away from the heavy things unsaid, as reaches across the table and grabs the remnants of Ruby’s pizza: a few pieces of crust that’d she’d left on her plate (as always). “Unless you want to weigh in on the debate: how much of a heathen is Ruby for the way she eats pizza?”

Ruby, as always, knows just when to follow Yang’s lead.

“Why would I fill my stomach with crust when it could be filled with sauce and cheese and meat?” she cries, and it’s such a familiar argument that Yang’s laughing — not even having to force it — before Ruby’s gotten four words in.

“As always, you’re assuming you _have_ a stomach capacity. And after the _dumpling_ _incident_ , we all know that’s patently false.”

“Weiss! We promised not to talk about that anymore!”

“Did we?”

Yang leans towards Blake, glad for an excuse to stop fighting the impulse she’s felt since they sat down (since Blake stretched out her leg and it brushed against Yang’s and she didn’t pull back).

“When Ren made us that dinner, one of the dishes was pork belly ssäm. Ruby decided that, instead of using lettuce like a normal human being, she should put it between the _dumplings_ — which, granted, were so fucking incredible I almost cried so I could _kind of_ understand the impulse — but she also ate, like, _seven_ of these monstrosities, _on top_ of the rest of the dishes.”

“I couldn’t move,” Ruby whines, hands falling to her stomach like she’s experiencing phantom pains. “I was on the _brink of death.”_

Weiss sighs. “Ruby, you ate several servings of dessert afterwards without any issue. And ‘ate’ is being generous.”

“Inhaled,” Yang suggests. “The word Weiss really means is ‘inhaled’.”

“I’m not sure I saw her actually _eat_ any of her pizza.” The tension in Blake’s shoulders has completely lifted, and when she presses her lips together, the action only emphasizes her smile. “It just kind of disappeared.”

“No! Blake!” Ruby clutches her chest, like she’s been shot, leaning back in her seat far enough that Weiss has to dart a hand out to keep her from tipping all the way over. “Betrayed so soon!”

Yang’s smile is bright, and she means her next words more than she should.

“See, Blake? You fit _right_ in.”

 

—

 

“Hey, Rubes, I’ve got food!”

Her lessons that afternoon had been full of thoughts of Blake (admittedly, not a particularly rare occurrence over the past couple weeks since they’d first met) and the basic schematics for her skis that Ruby had started to draw up the day before. She loves her job — loves sharing the sheer joy that comes with riding, no matter the level of proficiency — but there’s little that can win out over the thought of finding the perfect thing to put on Blake’s topsheet, of figuring out _exactly_ what graphic should represent her.

It’s a relief when her last lesson wraps up, and she can head to their workshop, a small but well-stocked garage that Weiss had somehow managed to acquire through an (ex-)family friend that hated her dad almost as much as he liked her. They’ve stocked it with an old CNC machine that Weiss got from a defunct custom build place, along with the presses, printers, saws, and benches they need to do their work, some of which Ruby and Yang had even made themselves. (Their pneumatic press is one that Yang’s especially proud of, even if Ruby had nearly lost a hand when they were putting it together for the first time — not a story they’ve _ever_ shared with Weiss.)

The workshop is cramped, full of sawdust, and always loud; Yang loves it as much as she loves any place on Earth, matched only by the top of a mountain covered in fresh powder.

“I’ve got an awesome idea for Blake’s skis, but…”

She pushes into the main room, using her foot to kick open the inner door, and stops, blinking over the top of the bag of takeout cradled in her arms.

“Blake.” The smile spreads across her face automatically, feeling of it hitting her chest hard. “Hey.”

She’s at Ruby’s main workstation, a dual-monitor setup that always seems to be displaying at least seven different programs, tucked into every corner of each screen. Even now, Yang can see a 3D model (presumably of Blake’s skis), a complicated jumble of numbers and formulas, and several different pictures of market skis, all of which Ruby currently seems to be using in a demonstration of some sort. Yang’s seen the process before, which is the only way she has any idea what’s going on; it’s hard to focus on anything past Blake’s small smile, which _definitely_ widens (or maybe just shifts) once Yang enters the room.

“Hey,” Blake returns, word as full of warmth as the smile.

“Food!”  

The moment slips away, lost to the shout and subsequent mad dash, fading into the background as Ruby grabs the bag out of Yang’s arms and rummages through it, making quiet, pleased noises at what she finds.

“Chubasco! I _love_ you.”

“She’s so easy to please,” Yang says with a laugh, gesturing with a nod towards Ruby, who’s dancing in place as she takes an assortment of boxes out of the bag, laying them out on the workbench with the least amount of potentially hazardous materials. “I didn’t realize you were going to be here, otherwise I’d have gotten more.”

“More?” Blake questions, head tilting as she eyes the veritable feast being laid out. “I’m not sure _how_.”

“We _just_ told you the dumpling sandwich story the other day. Now’s not the time for doubt. But hey, I’ll let you have some of mine. How do you feel about machaca?

Blake steps closer, shoulder nearly brushing against Yang’s as she comes to stand alongside her. “I feel pretty great about it. _El Chubasco_ is one of my favorites restaurants in the area, you know.”

“See? I knew you had taste.” She winks. “That’s why you like _me_ so much.”  

“Oh, _do_ I?”

It’s a challenge again, Yang knows, and her shoulders tighten with the response she has to hold back.

Ruby slips between them, oblivious (or impervious) to the thickness of the air in the small gap, and hands Blake a container of tacos with a pile of napkins on top, before nudging her back towards the workstation they’d so recently vacated.

“These will be less messy to share. We’re gonna eat and design! Sorry, Yang, we’re on a roll!”

It’s hard to mind, especially when Blake shoots her a look of amusement over her shoulder, and when Ruby seems so excited. It’s always been an infectious sort of thing, even back when they were kids, and Yang hurries in finding her own meal (the machaca she’d promised Blake before Ruby had taken over), and steps up behind the pair, watching as Ruby types in a few notes.

“Give me the overview?” Yang asks, eyes narrowing slightly in concentration as she reviews the specs she can see.

“Short, narrow, and light,” Ruby summarizes, as simply as possible. “Honestly, normally I’d be worried about making skis like this, but… eh, _you_ saw.”

“I sure did,” Yang breathes, and takes _a lot_ of pleasure watching as the skin at the back of Blake’s neck turns a darker, reddish-brown. “You going to go for _this_ much rocker?”

“That’s what we were just talking about.”

“I do a lot of backcountry.” Blake takes off the lid of her container and hums softly in happiness when the smell permeates the air. “Which can sometimes be tricky with my preference for shorter skis. Ruby was saying adding more rocker could give me the same feel in turns, but allow her to lengthen the skis more than I otherwise might like.”

Yang nods. “That sounds like a good idea to me. I could do a light core to help with the extra weight. Poplar and bamboo, maybe? Or we could look at a full carbon build. But I dunno. Gonna have to take a closer look at that sidecut when you finish it up.” She gestures at the screen, curving her finger along the shape of the ski Ruby’s laid out. “That’s fucking sexy though. Never seen you make it so deep.”

(The flush at Blake’s neck, nearly gone, returns full-force. Yang would be lying if she said that hadn’t been a targeted side-result, even if she’d absolutely meant her words.)

“Blake can handle it,” Ruby mumbles, mouth full of food, though she manages to chew a bit more fully as she makes a few adjustments to her design, lengthening and flattening the middle of the ski, before continuing. “Did you want to make any variations between the pair? The other day you were favoring your right side a little. Is that normal for you?”

It’s starting to become a familiar thing, the way Blake tightens up — action nearly, but not quite imperceptible — though Yang wishes that weren’t the case.

(But still takes note, filling the details away. It’s those details that matter when it comes to friends, knowing the small things that makes the difference. Like how Ruby — who’d cried the first time she’d seen their dad cut flowers by the stem — hates getting any kind of bouquet, or how Weiss — though she’s learned to hide her flinch — hates the feel of cold metal on her bare skin. It lets her adjust and prepare: buy potted plants for Ruby for her birthday, or warm up their cutlery, using her own body heat, on especially cold days before handing it to Weiss. She’ll learn Blake’s too, over time, even if the woman might try to hide them harder than most.)

“I hadn’t realized it was noticeable,” Blake says, and the tightness is there too, enough that Ruby takes note as well, brushing off her own question with a surprising ease.

“It’s not a big deal either way! I probably only noticed because I was looking for stuff like that. Sometimes people like having tiny differences in their right and left ski to fit their style, but you don’t have to.”

Blake shakes her head slightly. “It’s just an old injury. Nothing that actually hurts or affects anything. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Alrighty!” Ruby chirps. “Then that’s mostly it, other than tip and tail shape.”

“I remember seeing a little skiing backwards,” Yang teases (with care, easing them back into it), tapping Blake’s shoulder lightly (which, she’s glad to see, lowers when she relaxes once more). “Maybe something with a twin tip.”

“That _is_ usually my preference.”

“Oh, _yeah_!” A few more rapid clicks and key presses and Ruby has the general shape down. “ _Man_ , these are gonna be _awesome_! I need to go through everything again and make a few more little changes, but I think I’ve got the big stuff for the main design. Then I can get it ready for the CNC!” She takes another large bite of her burrito and wiggles in her seat, dancing to music that, for once, isn’t blaring throughout the workshop (presumably due to Blake’s presence).

“Sweet. That means _I’m_ all yours now, Blake Belladonna.” She spins Blake’s chair around — slow enough for Blake to stop if she wanted — and grins when the woman comes to face her, taco halfway up to her mouth, eyebrow quirked. “You ready to talk graphics?”

“Sure. I heard you’ve got an ‘ _awesome idea_ ’.”

Yang feels her face heat up, just a little. “Yeah, okay, I know _normally_ when you’re getting a custom board or skis, you pick out the graphic yourself. But I like to do things a little differently. Let me show you.”

She circles around to the back of Blake’s chair and starts to push her, one-handed, across the room, towards the opposite workstation, waving at Ruby as they go. Blake’s laugh is surprised and short, more of a brief burst of amusement more than anything else, but the smile sticks around long after, visible when Yang cuts through the different machines, making little racecar noises whenever she hits a hard turn. Her desk is similar to Ruby’s: two monitors, a drawing tablet, and scraps of paper tacked up on a cork-board just behind it, each containing a potential design or sketch or whatever happens to be inspiring Yang at the moment.

(She’s yet to pin up anything for Blake; the woman herself is all the inspiration she needs.)

“So, _normally_ when I’m doing my design, I do this little interview with the client. I learn all I can about them and come up with a design that I think suits them. If they hate it, or they have a super specific idea, then we scrap whatever I’ve come up with, and they can have a bit more input in the second round of designs.” She drops her takeout container on her desk and flops into her own chair, catching herself on the base of Blake’s seat to keep from spinning out.

“How often do people go with their own designs?”

Yang shrugs, making an effort (for once) to not sound overly cocky. “Haven’t had it happen yet. I’m not bad at picking up on what makes someone tick, or, at least a part of it. It’s not like I _know_ someone after so short a time, obviously, but I get ideas. Concepts, I guess. But it’s even easier with friends.”

She twirls her fork around her finger before taking a bite of her food, low noise of appreciation slipping out.

“Even Weiss let you pare her down to her essence?” Blake asks, smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve always thought her skis suited her, but couldn't imagine her picking them out.” Her face scrunches a little. “Does that even make sense?”

“Yeah, that’s it _exactly_. Weiss is too hard on herself — even now it’s tricky to get her to admit she’s more than just her last name, her skiing skills, or her almost-MBA.” She sucks a bit of hot sauce off her finger before waking her computer, tapping on the spacebar and typing in a quick code with one hand. “She would’ve picked something lame like plain white skis with her initials, I swear. So I figured I’d show off a little, on her behalf. I’ve only modified the main design a little since way back then, even when her style evolved and we made her new skis to fit.”

Clicking through a few folders, Yang pulls up the design on one of her screens; it’s a twisting labyrinth of shades of blue, overlapping barbs of ice cutting along the topsheet of the skis, giving the illusion of stretching into three-dimensions.

“I got to the center once,” Blake comments, gesturing at the spot on the screen where the maze eventually leads. “We were stuck on a lift and had some time to kill.”

Yang laughs, overly delighted at the mental image this forms (Blake leaning over the safety bar, tracing along the channels of the labyrinth with the tip of her pole, Weiss watching in barely veiled amusement). “I knew I couldn’t have it lead nowhere if it was going on _Weiss’s_ skis, though I _definitely_ thought about having it loop, just to see if she’d lose her mind.”

“Oh, she would’ve. And _then_ she would have killed you.” Her grin shows off the slightest flash of teeth.

“You’re _so_ right. Tragic.” Tapping her chin with her knuckle, she returns the smile. “Though, the idea of Weiss being in jail for my murder _does_ bring a certain amount satisfaction.”

Blake scoffs, soft snort escaping. “As though she wouldn’t have gotten away with it.”

“Shit. You’re right.” Yang tsks, and shakes her head. “Ruby might’ve avenged me though! Probably.”

“Not a whole lot of confidence there, Yang.”

“Look, I’m just not totally convinced that Ruby would’ve figured it out. She’s smart, but she trusts _way_ too easy. If I ever get murdered, you’re going to have to be the one to make sure justice is served. Just assume Weiss did it and go from there.”

Blake hums in thought as she takes another bite of her taco. “I’m just a _little_ concerned that Weiss will then _also_ have me murdered. Through one of her various connections while she’s in prison. So maybe it’s best if you just take one for the team. I promise to think about you on the anniversary of your death. That way, you can live on through _me_ . Because I’ll still be alive. And _not_ murdered by Weiss.”

A laugh bubbles up and out, spilling across her lips and pressing her against the back of her chair. “We have _so_ much faith in the person I call my best friend.”

“We have faith in her ability to get away with murder.” There’s that smile again — the one that curls at one corner and hits Yang right in the chest. “I think Weiss would take that as a compliment.”

“You’re right. I’m _such_ a good friend. And…” She trails off, opening up another file, this one of the design on Ruby’s board: the dark figure of a women dissolving into a flurry of rose petals. “A good sister. I know I’m biased, but this is one of my favorites.”

Leaning forward, Blake takes it in, eyes tracing over the design. “It’s beautiful.”

Maybe it’s that simple earnestness that makes Yang continue, beyond where she normally might stop (or maybe it’s just Blake herself).

“Ruby’s last name is ‘Rose’. And her mom — Summer — _loved_ roses. A little on the nose, maybe, but Summer never cared. Planted them _everywhere_ when we still lived outside of Harbin. She even had a greenhouse that our dad built. I was _not_ a calm kid, if you can imagine it, but Summer was always so patient with me. Didn’t mind when I got a little too enthusiastic with helping dig up plots and got totally covered in dirt.”

Her fingers drift along the top of of her mouse, barely jostling the cursor. Blake doesn’t interrupt the silence, just waits, eyes soft.  

“After Summer died, Ruby sort of picked up on the rose thing. We even volunteer at one of the community gardens here, when it’s open. So that’s why I put the petals — and her mom — on her board. A tribute, I guess. And because Ruby has a lot of Summer in her. All the good parts I can remember.”

Blake’s look is a little too understanding — a little too empathetic — and Yang’s once again reminded that this woman knows loss, in one form or another.

“From what I’ve seen of Ruby, she seems like a remarkable person. And so are you. So, Summer must have been pretty incredible, to have helped raise you both.”

“Yeah.” Glancing down, Yang smiles. “Yeah, she was.”

“And I’m beginning to see why no one ever turns down your designs.”

Yang laughs, glad to be able to shake away some of the unexpected somberness. “Well, you’re seeing the stuff I do for the people I know best. Maybe it’s an unfair sampling, or something.”

“It’s probably pretty easy to put that to the test.” Blake smiles, still a little more gentle than Yang’s seen before, but teasing enough to make her next words work just fine. “ What do you have in mind for me, Yang Xiao Long?”

“Oh, shit,” Yang gasps. “You found out my last name.”

“I asked Weiss. I like to have my phone contacts filled out fully.” She turns to her next taco, taking a bite all casual-like.

Yang isn’t fooled.

“Liar. Only Weiss is that much of a fucking nerd. You just wanted to stalk me on social media.”

(After all, Yang had done the same for her, only to find that ‘Blake Belladonna’ didn’t exist on Facebook or Instagram or anywhere else. It’s a little weird, but sort of checks out, too; it’s not like Blake is the _sharing_ type.)

“You’ll never know for sure,” Blake sniffs, in an approximation of Weiss that has Yang grinning. “Maybe I _am_ just that much of a nerd. My book collection _is_ bigger than hers.”

“Oh my god.” Yang kicks at her chair, pushing her away slightly. “Fuck, now I don’t know for sure. Your _book_ _collection_. You seemed so cool! But I should have known; you’re a _skier_. My eyes are _opened_. I was just fooled by the badass color scheme you have going on.”   

Both corners of Blake’s lips lift, and a soft laugh slips through as she pushes herself back towards the desk. Yang dies a little at the sound; nerd or no, she’s still crushing hard on this woman, and she’s well past the point of caring.

“Starting to doubt your design idea, Yang?” she teases, and Yang scoffs.

“Oh, no way. I mean, I saw you ski.”

Blake’s brow pinches as she stares at Yang, tilting her head in question. “And that helps?”

“Oh, _yeah_. How a person rides or skis tells a lot about them. Like, look at Weiss. You can tell she grew up taking lessons — _fancy_ , super-expensive lessons — her posture and turning and everything is textbook. Or, with Ruby, she cheers _every_ time she hits a jump. Every time! That’s _just_ how fucking excitable she is.”

“I picked up on that.” Blake laughs, a soft puff of air. “Sometime around her twenty-seventh question about my skis, I think.”

“You got off _light_.” Picking back up her fork, she emphasizes the word with it, poking the air in front of Blake. “But see? Style and personality.”

“Alright. I’m following you. So what does my skiing say about me?”

She asks the question calmly, but Blake’s stare is intense, focused, and bright. In the face of it, Yang gives herself another moment to consider her answer, even if it’s already there, ready (burning) on the tip of her tongue.  

“I think it’s in the way you turn. Or like, how you decide what path you’re going to take. If I’m behind someone, it’s usually easy for me to tell how they’re gonna move — they brace themselves for a shift _way_ in advance. But you?” Yang whistles, low and impressed, and Blake laughs again, just as softly. “No chance. I’d feel bad for people trying to pass you if you weren’t so _fast_ on top of it. No way could anyone ever catch up to you. I kept thinking, when I was watching you in Black Forest, that you could go around a tree one way and your shadow might just decide to go another, you know? Or that you’d cut around a bend and just… not come out on the other side. You’re hard to pin down, Belladonna, and that applies to more than how you go down a mountain.”

It’s hard to tell exactly what Blake thinks of her assessment, which kind of proves Yang’s point all the more, though she’s not about to say so.

“So that’s kind of how I got the idea for your skis.” She clicks open a browser and types out a quick image search, pulling up a few pictures for Blake to look at.

“You ever seen this stuff? It’s called shadow art. Someone takes all these random things that don’t look like anything on their own and aligns them in _just_ the right way in front of a light source and it makes a perfect shadow of whatever the artist intended.” She flicks her fork at the screen. “Like here where all this random trash makes a shadow of Darth Vader. Cool shit, right?”   

“Cool shit,” Blake agrees with a tugging smile. “But hard to turn into something you can put on skis, I would think.”

“Uh, yeah. I’ve got a few sketches, but I’m gonna have to figure that part out. But it’ll be worth it.” She pauses, cracking the knuckles on her left hand almost absently. “I feel like there are all these different parts of you, you know? And maybe you let some people see some and show different parts to others, but when you let someone see all of it? Let them stand in _just_ the right place and turn on a light? Then it’ll all come together in a way that’s... _perfect_.”  

Blake stares at her. It takes a lot to make Yang feel self-conscious, but under that gaze, she gives into the impulse to rub at that back of her neck, smile turning a little bashful.

“We just met,” Blake says, and it’s different from how she said it before, back when they first brought the idea up — the surprise and disbelief still present, but this time joined by something softer (something that smooths Blake’s brow and lifts the corner of her lip). It’s enough to make Yang grin, settling back into a state of ease once again.

“It’s been a week! And counting!” The grin widens, bright and sure. “But I think we’re going to be counting for a while.”

“You just… say _exactly_ what you’re thinking, don’t you?” But Blake’s smile is growing too, wider than Yang’s seen it yet, and it’s nothing but encouraging, filling up Yang’s chest with warmth.

“Bad?” she asks, even if the answer’s already clear.

“Refreshing.” Her eyes narrow slightly, playful more than anything else. “But I’m pretty sure there’s still plenty to learn.”

Yang’s arms spread as wide as her grin. “Aw, come on. I’m an open book!”

“ _That’s_ assuming I know which page to turn to.”

(It’s not something anyone’s ever said about Yang before. She thinks she might like it.)

“Well, it’s like I was saying.” Yang hooks an ankle around one of the legs of Blake’s chair and tugs, rolling her close enough for their knees to brush. “We’ve both got lots of time to find out.”

 

—

 

She wakes with a stiff back and an arm full of pins and needles, but there are fingers stroking through her hair, scraping gently under the curls, and that makes it a little easier to remain civil when she rolls her head to the side and looks up, confronting the source of the disturbance.

“You and Ruby weren’t answering your phones,” Weiss murmurs, not quite meeting her stare as she explains. “I got worried.”

Yang groans as she sits up, straightening her back with an audible pop that makes Weiss wince and drop her hand to Yang’s shoulder, rubbing along the back of it with her thumb.

“She fell asleep too?”

“With the _precisely_ the same terrible posture.”

It’s impossible to tell what time it is from the lighting alone, but Yang figures she probably doesn’t really want to know anyways; judging from the fact that Weiss is in sweatpants, she’s pretty sure it’s well past midnight.

“Shit, sorry, Weiss. Guess we both got wrapped up in this.” She rubs at her face with one hand and waves at her screen with the other, before realizing that it’s turned off, and wakes it with a tap of the keyboard. “Uh, _this_.”

The sketch is still in its early form, splashes of shades of purple and black thrown on top of simple lines, but the basic idea is still clear; the left ski holds a collection of blocks of different sizes and shapes, each throwing off a shadow that only fully reveals itself, combined, on the right ski, on which the figure of a woman twists in the air, skis crossed mid-trick. Weiss makes a quiet noise of appreciation as she leans forward, fingers still massaging the muscles at the crook of Yang’s neck.   

“Yang, these are — ” Weiss lets out a low breath. “ — _stunning_. And perfect for Blake. _God_.”

Her hand drops away, and Yang lets out a whine of protest, but stops when she catches sight of the look on Weiss’s face, sees how _open_ it is.  

“Hey,” she rasps, voice still rough with sleep, reaching back and tapping at Weiss’s hip. “What is it?”

“I just — ” Weiss shakes her head and clears her throat. “I was just remembering the first time you and Ruby made skis for me.”

“We stayed up all night for those too.” It’s easy to get lost in the memory of it — of Ruby, only fifteen at the time, nearly tearing out her hair as she’d worked to get every single detail right; of the two of them struggling with the borrowed press of a friend of their dad’s, way past their bedtime — and Yang laughs as the details come back to her. “Actually, _a lot_ of nights. We weren’t as good at this as we are now.”

“I probably don’t say it enough,” Weiss murmurs, voice barely audible. “How much it meant, then. How much _everything_ meant that came after.”

Yang turns her chair and stands; Weiss takes a half step back, all reflex, but Yang’s hand —  settling on her arm — and her gentle smile, keep her from going too far.

“We know, Weiss. We’re like, _family._ ” She flexes her hand, squeezing once. “Of _course_ we know.”

“And Blake?” Weiss nods in the direction of the displayed artwork, though she’s too short to be able to see it over Yang’s shoulder. “You know that too?”

There’s a lot in the question, and Yang’s not sure she has an answer to it, let alone one that she wants to share. It’d be silly to admit to feeling so much, so quickly, even if Weiss is staring at her like she already knows. (Even if maybe it’s a little obvious to all of them.)

“I know it’s _something_ ,” she says slowly, shrugging a single shoulder. “And I’m looking forward to finding out _what_.”

Weiss nods again — this time to herself —  and smiles, even if it comes with a soft roll of her eyes. “No stopping it now, is there?

“We’re _well_ into designing the skis, Weiss.” Yang grins, crooked and pleased, and gives Weiss’s arm a soft squeeze, exhaustion leading to earnestness. “There’s no turning back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Thanks for all your sweet comments. I wasn't sure if anyone was going to care about an AU about skiing and snowboarding, so I'm glad y'all are giving it a shot, despite the severe niche feel.  
> 2) 'Family' by Mother Mother is the biggest Yang song it makes me want to cry. Are Team Soulmates a thing? I'm pretending they're a thing.  
> 3) The teasing of Weiss at the start draws from two of my favorite things: The Emperor's New Grove and Arrested Development (which only had three seasons, don't talk to me)  
> 4) Jude, if you're reading this, I'm so sorry that I have not contributed to your cooking redemption for Blake. She is not good at it in this fic. Please forgive me. You're still so valid.  
> 5) Towards the end of the chapter, Blake references Cake's 'Open Book' : "You think she's an open book / But you don't know which page to turn to, do you?" It's such a great line and it's definitely not mine.  
> 


	3. it can work for you

_Let's make this happen, girl,_  
_We're gonna show the world that something_  
_Good can work, and it can work for you  
_ _And you know that it will._

[Two Door Cinema Club, _Something Good Can Work_ ]

 

—

There are a few hard and fast rules in the Xiao Long/Rose/Schnee household (most of which had, admittedly, been penned by the latter member), but Yang has always considered one of the unwritten ones to be the most important:

Thursday nights are movie nights.

It hadn’t started out as a planned sort of thing, back when they’d been high school students with time to spare, but it had become one over the years, each girl managing to clear a couple hours out of nearly every Thursday night, despite differing and always-busy schedules. The movie itself never much matters (it’s Weiss’s turn tonight, which means a dry, historically-accurate film or cheesy romance, depending on her mood), but the ceremony of it — everything it _stands_ for — is sacred.

Which is why _maybe_ Yang feels a little guilty when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s not like their movie nights are _always_ roommate-only affairs. Various friends have popped in over the years, often in groups (all seven of them piled on the couch, strewn across the pillows, overlapping each other like a color wheel), but it still occurs to Yang, right then, that maybe she should have mentioned it to Ruby and Weiss before giving Blake a call with an invitation.

( _“Haven’t you heard of texting?” Blake asked, amusement plain._

 _“Texting means I don’t get to hear your pretty voice.”_ )

It _occurs_ to her, but doesn’t stop her from vaulting over the arm of their couch to answer the knock before anyone else.

“I’ve got it!”

The grin is on her face before she swings open the door — before she catches sight of Blake, black coat falling past her knees, dark purple beanie pulled low on her forehead — but it grows when she does.

(As the weeks have passed, the reaction’s gotten worse rather than better; it probably has something to do with the particular way Blake smiles back now, with easy warmth rather than _just_ the simple teasing that’d been there since their very first meeting.)

“Perfect timing.” She steps back, enough to allow Blake to slip past, and taps on both her shoulders when she does, sliding her fingers around and under the lapels of Blake’s coat, waiting until she’s finished unbuttoning it to slip it off for her.

“Perfect everything,” she adds, shooting a teasing grin over her shoulder as she hangs the coat (and the beanie the woman tosses her way soon after) on their entranceway rack. “You even got the pajamas right.”

That’s another unwritten detail: movie nights always involve pajamas, even for guests. Blake’s are simple: black, fitted joggers and a grey, long-sleeved Deer Valley shirt that Yang’s _sure_ she’s wearing just to tease. The attire falls right in line with Yang’s (cut-off sweat-shorts and an oversized, yellow, CrossFit Park City tank top) and Ruby’s (baggy sweatpants and red hoodie), but are a far cry from Weiss’s matching set attire, which involves _buttons_ and a _collar_ and a fabric that might just be silk, and almost always makes Yang laugh.

“Of course she did.” Weiss puts a hands on her hip (it makes her “pajamas” look even more like formal attire, and Yang can’t hold back a smile). “I told her to.”

“Aw, you told her you were coming?” she asks Blake, bottom lip sticking out. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Weiss’s forehead pinches. “ _I_ invited her.”

“Actually,” Blake cuts in smoothly, pulling out a container of Tupperware from her bag and handing it to Ruby in the kitchen. “You all did.”

Ruby laughs loudly, her delight only increasing when she opens the Tupperware and finds M&M cookies inside, one of which she shoves into her mouth without pause. “For good reason, apparently!”

“Whoops!” Yang offers an apologetic smile, but can’t find it in herself to mean it. If anything, she’s filled with affection for her roommates (and the woman they’ve all decided to bring into their lives, with at least _mostly_ overlapping intentions).

Blake shakes her head smiling. “It worked out pretty well, really. I got something different from each of you. Innuendos.” She points at Yang and gets dual finger guns in response. “Practical information.” She waves a hand at Weiss. “And enthusiastic encouragement.” Directed at Ruby, of course, who smiles back with a mouthful of chocolate.

“We’re a kickass team,” Yang summarizes. “Even when we don’t _totally_ realize we’re working together.”

“Another win for Team WRY!”

“Not, like, _rye_ as in bread,” Yang explains, sliding alongside Blake, and — when the woman leans in her direction — throwing an arm around her shoulders. “But W-R-Y, as in our first initials. It’s the best Ruby’s been able to come up with, and she’s been working on it since High School.”

Weiss sighs, grabs the popcorn from the microwave, and takes the container of cookies away from Ruby, handing it back to Blake (only for Yang to grab a cookie out of, mid-hand-off). “Not her best.”

“You guys!” Ruby cries. “Mean!”

“God, Weiss. How many times do we have to tell you to be nice?”

Yang allows herself to get hit by the thrown piece of popcorn rather than move away from Blake, who catches it as it bounces off of Yang’s shoulder and pops it in her mouth with a curling smile. It’s a fairly impressive snag. And cuter than it has any right being.

“I’m nice! It’s _my_ turn to pick tonight and I _still_ went with the 2005 film version of Pride and Prejudice rather than the 1995 BBC miniseries because I know you prefer the abridged version.”

“See, Yang?” Blake murmurs. “She’s a straight-up _martyr_.”

“She’s not a _straight_ anything,” Ruby snorts, grabbing the bag of popcorn out of Weiss’s hands (hip checking her along the way), and drops onto the couch. “I call middle!”

“You’re _only_ able to joke, Blake, because you weren’t here the _last_ time we watched Pride and Prejudice.” Weiss steps around them, grabbing the remote before she sits on the edge of the couch, next to Ruby. ”Isn’t that right, _Yang_?”

“You keep trying to make me feel bad about that, but it’s not going to happen. It was _hilarious_.”

Ruby giggles at the memory, not deterred when Weiss elbows her none-too-gently.

Yang’s smile stretches wide, turning to Blake to explain. “You know the part where Keira Knightley fucking _wrecks_ that dude?”

“I think that’s the whole movie,” Blake returns.

“Well, the _main_ part. I bought an air horn and sounded it _right_ when she destroys him and his shitty marriage proposal. It really added to the ambiance, honestly. Jane Austen would have approved.”

Blake’s lips twitch. “Mmhmm. And?”

“ _And_ it happened to go off near-ish Weiss’s ear,” she adds, only slightly sheepish. “And it was a _little_ louder than expected.”

“There it is.” Blake slips out from under her arm with a smile, and Yang pouts until she sits down next to Ruby and pats the space to her left, just wide enough for Yang to squeeze in next to her.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m guilty of being a delight.” Flopping onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, Yang kicks her feet onto the coffee table, right leg overlapping Blake’s thigh by a fair amount. “Sue me.”

“You’re guilty of being a _menace_ ,” Weiss sniffs, though even across the couch, Yang catches her half smile. “And I would if I could.”

“Honestly, it’s kind of embarrassing how much you love me, Weiss. Tone it down, Princess.”

Weiss throws a folded blanket — more in the direction of Yang’s face than she otherwise might — which Yang catches and spreads out over her and Blake, Ruby doing the same for her and Weiss. (Another tradition: no matter how hot the apartment gets in the summer months, the movie blankets _must_ be spread out, at least at the start.)

“Okay. Popcorn, cookies, blankets, remote.” Ruby counts off on her fingers. “Drinks and cups on the coffee table — help yourself, Blake — _and_ I think we’re good?”

“Awesome. Alexa, play that one movie that makes Weiss lose her shit over a little hand-holding.” Yang drawls, resting her right arm along the back of couch (brushing against a few strands of Blake’s hair, tied up in a loose ponytail).

“ _I’m sorry, I don’t know that one_.”

“Alexa, teach Yang how to stop being a complete pest.”

“ _I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question_.”

“Alexa — ”

“ — Turn off the lights!” Ruby cuts in, a whine to her tone. “Stop making me be the mature one, guys. I _hate_ it.”

“It’s a heavy responsibility,” Blake says, nodding in faux-sympathy. “Telling the virtual assistant/conglomerate surveillance system to turn off your lights for you.”

Yang snorts in laughter, nudging Blake’s shoulder with a quick rap of her palm. “Oh, _not_ a fan of our digital buddy Alexa, then?”

“It freaks me out. A little.” Blake’s nose scrunches a little, and it softens Yang’s laugh.

“You’re _cute.”_

A faint tinge of red hits Blake’s cheeks, fading too quickly to quell what Yang thinks _might_ be her newest addiction. (Blake reveals bits of herself in the most absentminded of ways, little scraps of information dropped with particular expressions and blushes and movements, and Yang snatches each up with an eagerness that’s somehow still surprising.)

“When I was still privy to the inner-workings of Schnee Industries, one of their highest priorities was surveillance of private citizens,” Weiss says crispy, flipping through their collection of movies with rapid clicks. “So it’s not as though she’s wrong to be wary.”

“Blake! Weiss! You’re going to hurt Alexa’s feelings!”

If Yang had been the one to say it, she would have received only derision; as it is, all three girls look at Ruby with nothing but fondness. It feels fair, honestly.

“Plus,” Yang adds in a whisper, leaning further into Blake’s side, mouth at her ear. “We can’t let them know we’re on to them, right?”

Amusement pulls at Blake’s lips, and when she turns towards Yang, she’s close enough that a few dark curls brush across Yang’s nose. Her hair smells good — something with coconuts or vanilla, maybe — and Yang’s distracted for an extended moment, arm dropping, pads of her fingers gliding _just_ along Blake’s shoulder.

“You have a plan?”

“Mmhmm, just play along.” She raises her voice, tone flat and robotic. “But Blake and other assorted friends, what about all the good Amazon, Inc. does for our lives? Did you know that they are making a positive impact on the environment with their _Amazon Day_ program?”

“You are right, Yang,” Blake returns, much in the same way. “This program will allow for less packaging waste and more convenience for you _and_ me. I can’t believe I ever doubted the sincerity of a trillion dollar company with suspect labor practices. How silly of me!”

Even from across the couch, it’s easy to see Weiss’s eyeroll. “You guys are _so_ weird.”

Yang grins and Blake barely holds back one of her own and neither of them move away from the other, once the movie starts.

—

“Okay, big question: Darcy versus Elizabeth.”

“Like… in a fight?” There’s still sleep in Ruby’s voice, what with her having passed out against Weiss sometime mid-movie, but the concept of a duel between the two main characters of a historical romance seems to give her a second wind. “Elizabeth, duh. No contest.”

Yang shakes her head. Her arm is stiff, painfully so, but she’s not about to move further than that; Blake’s settled against her side, curled under her shoulder with seemingly little thought as the movie progressed, and Yang has absolutely no desire to jostle her. “No, like, bangability. Or cuddle-ability, if you prefer. And _obviously_ , this is allowing for flexibility in any gender preferences.”

“Elizabeth. No contest,” Blake echoes, and then, quietly (just for Yang): “I like a woman with a clever tongue.”

“ _Je_ sus,” Yang breathes, a bit louder than she intends. “I _bet_ you do.”

She doesn’t even _try_ to stop staring at Blake’s mouth either, at the way her lips quirk when she feels Yang looking. She also has a _significantly_ harder time following the conversation as it continues, so that’s _not great_ , since it was her question in the first place.

“If forced to decide between the two, I suppose I’d go with Elizabeth as well. But Jane is my favorite,” Weiss says, as though she’d had the answer prepped and ready to go (which isn’t an unfair assumption; Yang’s not sure how many times Weiss has seen some variation of the story, but it’s got to be in the high dozens).

“I guess… Darcy. I like that he’s a big softie, under it all. I bet he’s a good snuggler.”

Blake’s lips twist again, and Yang gets drawn out of her trance by the movement. At least, enough to meet Blake’s eyes, which are so fucking _knowing_ that it’d be embarrassing if it wasn’t so hot.

“Looks like you could be the deciding vote here, Yang.”

“Um. Yeah.” She licks her lips. “It’s a lady Darcy for me. All broody and mysterious. But then _actually_ a total sap. It’s a layers thing.”

“I call it ‘The Coco Effect’,” Ruby chirps, and Yang _freezes_.

Blake notices.

(Betrayed by a what had otherwise been an _incredibly_ smooth movie cuddle — it’s not an exaggeration to say Yang feels _devastated_ over the turn.)

“Ruby,” Blake says slowly. “I’m going to need every single detail of whatever you’re talking about, please and thank you.”

“Or,” Yang cuts in. “We could go to bed.”

She pushes off the couch, stumbling a little as the pins and needles hit, and grunts softly when the sensations in her arm are worse, painful enough that her lips pull into a small snarl when she closes her hand into a fist and rolls out her wrist. Neither Weiss or Ruby are subtle as they watch with concern, but thankfully, Yang has just the thing to distract them, even if it’s at her own expense.

“Because it’s _late_. And Ruby is clearly tired. And probably remembering things incorrectly, or whatever.”

“It was a crisp fall day, the first time Yang Xiao Long fell in love with a girl,” Ruby begins, in what _might_ be her best approximation of a voice-over: pitch lowered, words enunciated, and water glass raised up like a microphone.

“Oh my god,” Yang groans.

“Oh my _god_.” Blake grins.

“I was only ten, but I still remember Yang walking through the door of our humble abode and declaring, for all of the household to hear, that she had met her future wife. And _her_ name was Coco.”

“You should do this for a living,” Blake says, eyebrows lifting in earnestness, though her crooked smile gives her away.

“Coco Adel was in high school, five whole years older, and when Yang had been walking home that day, she’d seen her nearly get arrested for snowboarding down the middle of the street and jibbing on a cop car.”

“In defense of my twelve year-old self, that is a _valid_ reason to fall in love with someone.”

Weiss leans forward, placing her chin on one of her hands. “But how can you _possibly_ defend the beret, Yang?”

“You’re a _monster_.”

“See, no matter what, Coco would always wear this _super_ French beret and a pair of really dark sunglasses. Like, every day. It was her fashion statement, I guess. So _Yang_ decided that she should _also_ get a beret and glasses. You know, for her and Coco’s _engagement photos_.”

“I have this _password_ protected so it can never be deleted,” Weiss says, before reaching across Ruby to hand her phone over to Blake.

Yang doesn’t have to lean in to know exactly what the picture contains, but she does anyways, a dramatic sigh slipping from her lips at the same time a loud laugh bursts from Blake’s. It’s her younger self, of course: arms crossed, beret and glasses on, standing back to back with Coco Adel herself.

“I feel like we do have to give Yang some credit, because Coco did play along.” Ruby grins, giggles bubbling up, breaking through her announcer persona. “Yang waited for her outside of the high school in a marriage proposal _ambush,_ and even though there’s _no way_ Coco had any clue who she was, Dad says she didn’t _hesitate_ before telling Yang that even though they should probably wait ten years or so before making anything official, they could do the engagement photoshoot then anyways, since Yang got all dressed up.”

Ruby, Blake, and Weiss all fall into their laughter, but Yang just smiles, shaking her head. She barely remembers the moment, but she knows she was lucky, despite all the subsequent teasing that occured, that she’d managed to get her first major crush on someone so kind. And cool. She couldn’t fault her younger self’s taste.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”

“Oh, god. It’s just so precious,” Blake coos, holding Weiss’s phone to her chest. “I could barely manage to talk to anyone in middle school and you were already proposing to girls way cooler than you.”

“Hey! I _rocked_ those sunglasses.”

“Everyone should have known you’d turn out insufferable after that,” Weiss sighs, catching her phone when Blake tosses it over. “Your ego never took the hit that everyone else experienced in their awkward pre-teen years.”

“Oh! But what about the one time where she decided she was going to be an astronaut and put on — ”

Ruby cuts herself off with a loud squeal, caused by Yang lunging past Blake and Weiss, grabbing Ruby around the waist, and tossing her over her shoulder.

“I think that’s enough stories for tonight.” Yang blows a loose strand of hair out her face, unconcerned by the flail of Ruby’s legs, furious and frantic.

“ _Yang_!”

“We _do_ have a full day tomorrow.” Weiss stands and stretches, pointedly ignoring Ruby’s struggle (outside of taking care to stay out of reach of her limbs). “What time did you want to meet, Blake?”

“Mm, ten?” The way Blake slides to her feet is more graceful than it has any right being, and Yang watches her movements more closely than she should, especially with a squirming sister tossed over her back. “You have class at three, right? We should have enough time even if we don’t get there first thing.”

“You should just stay here, Blake.” Finally starting to settle down and accept her fate, Ruby hangs limply, calling around Yang’s back. “Unless you have to go back and get your gear anyways.”

“Yeah, we’ve got plenty of room.” Yang’s lips tilt. “You can take my bed. I’ll crash with this loser.” She pokes Ruby’s side, making her spasm and Blake laugh.

“If you’re sure it’s not any trouble.”

“No way!” Yang flips Ruby off her shoulder, dropping her on the couch without any ceremony. She groans a little, face mashed into a pillow, and Weiss reaches over to pat her foot in absentminded sympathy. “I’ll give you the tour while Ruby and Weiss clean up.”

“Taking the tough job, I see,” Blake murmurs, but follows Yang when she heads further into the apartment.

“It’s Weiss’s turn! She who picks the movie gets stuck with the cleanup. And Ruby always helps, no matter who’s on cleaning duty.” She spins around to flash a grin at their guest. “So that leaves the hosting duties to me.”

“You seem really torn up about it.”

“Well, yeah.” She stops in the middle of the hallway, right outside of Weiss’s room. “I _hate_ spending time with cute girls in my apartment. Like, it’s one of my bottom ten favorite activities.” She pauses, brow lowering as she considers. “Top ten least favorite activities? I don’t know which one makes more sense.”

“Matter of preference, I think, when it comes to top or bottom.”

Oh. _Okay_. So _that’s_ a thing they’re just fucking talking about now. _Sure_.

The expression on Blake’s face is _almost_ innocent, just the slightest twist of her mouth (and the gleam in her eyes) giving her away. Yang’s returning look is definitely a whole lot less subtle. And her throat is suddenly _dry_ , so the scratchy response doesn’t help. At all.

“And, um, what would _your_ preference be, Blake?”

“You can’t tell?”

The rush of mental images that hit Yang then are _really_ vivid. And distracting. And full of possibilities. And not exactly encouraging the sort of restraint she’d been aiming for. (Aiming for and mostly failing to reach, _sure_ , but still _aiming_ for. She deserves _some_ credit, at least, especially when faced with _this_.) It’s a _blessing_ when something clatters in the kitchen, shortly followed by Ruby’s loud laughter.

Still, she can’t pull back her response.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” she murmurs, trying not to think of any of them.

Pushing open the door to Weiss’s room helps; the calming blue walls and neatly organized space is so meticulously arranged and so very _Weiss_ that it shifts Yang’s thoughts in an entirely different direction, full of crossed arms and rolling eyes. It helps even _more_ when Blake’s eyes slide away, taking in the IKEA photoshoot of a room rather than daring Yang to pin her to the closest flat surface and fuck her senseless.

(Or. Well. It _might_ not be helping as much as Yang would have hoped.)

“Weiss’s room,” Blake states rather than guesses, words a soft rasp.

“Yup.” She stretches it out into two syllables, popping the latter. “Dunno what could’ve given it away.”

“Definitely not the color scheme. Or the textbooks sorted by height. Or the bed that looks like it was made by hotel staff.”

“Hey, my bed could _totally_ look that good.”

“Does it?”

Yang pauses, eyes flicking further down the hallway. “If you wait here for like, five minutes, it _might_.”

“I think I’d rather see it in its natural state.”

Blake _probably_ doesn’t mean for that one to sound suggestive, but Yang’s so keyed up it definitely comes across as it, and she takes several steps back, further down the hallway, to help clear her head a bit more.

 _That_ doesn’t really help, either, and Blake just follows her, smile in place.

“Yeah, uh, Ruby’s room is next door.” She gestures in and Blake peaks around the door frame. “Also what you’d expect: red stuff, design stuff, and lots of clothes.”

It’s organized disarray, in a lot of ways. Nothing egregious overall, but blueprints and schematics are tacked up all around the room, obscuring the walls enough that the dark red they’re painted is mostly hidden, only bits of it peeking through. The closet is mostly neat, a swath of red in the middle, but a few empty hangers stick out, jilted by the force of tugging things directly off.

“An attempt was made at making the bed,” Blake observes with a soft laugh.

“That’s because Ruby is scared of Weiss.”

“As opposed to you, who… isn’t?”

“Nah.” Yang jerks her thumb over her shoulder, towards the room across the hall; Blake turns and looks inside, but doesn’t step beyond the threshold until Yang does, slipping past with the lightest nudge of her shoulder. “I’m just better at hiding it, I think.”

The bed’s unmade, of course, sheets bunched up to the side, but the room as a whole is fairly neat, if not quite fully _tidy_. Living with Weiss had taken care of some of her worst habits (leaving clothing on the floor and not bringing dishes to the sink), which leaves everything looking lived-in rather than messy. She hasn’t quite reached the framed artwork stage of adulthood yet, so the far wall is decorated with tacked up pictures, band posters, and the rare graphic of hers that she’d liked enough to display. Underneath, the wall is painted a bright yellow that Weiss had hated (and hated _loudly_ ) until Yang had finished the job and added a dark grey chalkboard paint to the rest of the room, evening out the brightness.

Those walls had — over the years — been covered in a collection of drawings, quotes, and scribbles, courtesy of friends and family, and Blake spends a fair amount of time looking over these, laughing at a crude doddle (courtesy of Nora) of Yang — identified by the long, yellow mane of hair — riding down a mountain wearing nothing but her boots and a pair of gloves. The laughter fades into a softer smile at the well-drawn image of a younger Ruby, Weiss, and Yang, passed out in a pile on an old leather sofa (one that could still be found in her dad’s house, in the exact same spot).

“My dad drew that one. But you’ll have to leave your own mark,” Yang says, rapping at one of the walls with her knuckles. “It’s kind of a tradition.”

“Looks like it. I’d say I wasn’t much of an artist, but…” She trails off, pointing at a particularly poorly done stick-figure drawing of two figures — one blonde, the other white-haired — and a lot of misshapen hearts and jagged lines. “Apparently that’s not a good enough excuse.”

Yang bursts into laughter. “Oh, god. _Weiss_ drew that when she was totally wasted. We’ve never been able to figure out exactly what it is. Weiss says it’s me looking at her like, lovestruck? Because I’m obsessed with her or something? It was supposed to be a burn. But that doesn’t explain this part here.” She points to one of the zig zags cutting through both of the figures. “Is this lightning? Are we being killed? It’s unclear.”

“It kind of looks like she’s holding a sword?” Blake squints, peering at the image. “Or maybe that’s a middle finger.”

“Well, either way, nothing you do could be worse than _that_ , so no backing out of your guest-ly duty.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Blake tilts her head in that way she always does when she has a question, but doesn’t ask it. Yang thinks it might have something to do with the way they’re in her room, with a bed and no one else in sight, and the _something_ between them that hasn’t dissipated, despite her best efforts. But maybe that’s wistful thinking, and she can still hear Weiss and Ruby down the hall — the gentle clink of glasses and soft murmurs — if she stops and listens, so it’s all a moot point, really.

“ _Anyways_. Make yourself comfortable. There’s an extra toothbrush in the bathroom and you can help yourself to any of our toiletries, towels, or whatever else.” She scratches the back of her head, glancing around the room in thought. “That window gets a lot of light in the morning so… might want to make sure the blinds are shut tight, if that’s not your thing. Oh, and if you hear someone moving around the room next door in the middle of the night, that’s probably Ruby and not someone breaking into our place and trying to kill us. We turned the spare bedroom into a mini-workshop and sometimes she can’t sleep and starts working on something.”

“Good to know I won’t be murdered in my sleep,” Blake drawls.

Yang shrugs, smile crooked and teasing. “I mean, I said _probably_. But if you survive the night, there’ll be pancakes in the morning before you and Weiss head out.”

“That’s… not super reassuring, Yang.”

“Only because you haven’t had my pancakes yet.” She winks. “You’ll see.”

—

“Alright, I can admit it. These are worth almost being murdered over.”

Yang turns away from the stove, bringing the skillet with her, and flips a pancake into the air with a practiced lift of her wrist. Out of the three people sitting at the kitchen counter, only Blake has the _decency_ to look impressed, but then, Ruby’s pretty much passed out, face flat on the surface in front of her, and Weiss is focused on Blake, blinking at her in confusion.

“Murdered?”

“I can only make like, ten things, but I make them all super well.” She slides a pancake onto Weiss’s plate instead of elaborating on the whole _murder thing_. “That’s the secret to my success.”

“What _kind_ of success?” Blake asks, and Yang winks by way of response, before moving back to the stovetop.

“Her success at doing the bare minimum to contribute to this household.” It might be a bit more convincing if Weiss weren’t tearing into her pancake with more voraciousness than table etiquette would normally allow; as it is, Yang glances away from the batter on the skillet, not yet bubbling, and shoots her a wide grin.

“Guess you don’t want another one, then?”

“Don’t even _joke_.” Weiss shoots back, tugging her plate closer to her chest.

Clicking her tongue in an audible reprimand, Yang spins the spatula in her hand and gestures to the half-asleep woman sprawled out next to Weiss. “Ruby first.”

She only gets a grumble in response (and a dirty look, but it’s directed at Ruby, who fails to notice).

“I didn’t think you were the pancake type.” Blake takes another bite, lips wrapping around her fork with a soft hum of pleasure. “In fact, the last time we grabbed breakfast on the mountain, you made a _face_ when I ordered them. I distinctly remember because my feelings were _terribly_ hurt.”

“Yang is the only one who doesn’t make them too sweet.” Spoken too soon, probably, because it’s time for Ruby to be served, and Weiss takes one look at the pancake waiting in the pan, and gives it the same sort of face Blake had undoubtedly been referring to. “Unless she’s making them for Ruby.”

Still, Weiss helps Yang wrangle Ruby into a vaguely seated position, both of them tugging on her shoulders until she flops back against her seat with a little whine, and Yang slides the monstrosity of a pancake onto her plate.

“Look at it; it’s more chocolate than batter.” Weiss flicks Ruby’s ear, jolting her further awake. “That much sugar to the bloodstream would kill a normal woman.”

“I think Weiss just called you exceptional, Ruby. Congrats!”

Ruby grumbles something under her breath, completely unintelligible, and Yang grabs the maple syrup from the counter, pouring a generous amount over the girl’s plate. It’s enough that even Blake looks a little wary, lip curling in light disgust.

“I think you killed it. TOD: 9:24 am. COD: asphyxia while immersed in syrup.”

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Yang gasps, overly dramatic. “I could totally dig you as the sexy CSI person.”

“ _Please_ have mercy. It’s far too early for this.” Shaking her head, Weiss points at the swimming pancake, already a quarter gone under Ruby’s ministrations, and adds, “Or _that_.”

“I don’t know what you want from me; the girl can make ‘asphyxia’ sound hot. That’s a feat.”

A _very_ particular glint forms in Blake’s eyes, but before she can do more than open her mouth to respond, Weiss cuts her off.

“Do _not_ go there.”

“Later, maybe,” Blake says, smile showing teeth, and Yang forgets to turn the next pancake until the smell of burning reaches her nose.

(She gives it to Weiss, charred side down.)

—

The skiers leave not fifteen minutes later. Yang overdoes it slightly when she offers to take care of the dishes so that they can make it to the slopes by their planned time, but Weiss only looks suspicious for a moment before she’s distracted by Ruby knocking over a glass of orange juice. It’s a masterful, if unexpected, bit of distraction, and Yang winks at her in thanks once both Blake and Weiss have their backs turned.

“Have fun taking part in the heinous treatment of snowboarders!” she calls as they depart, wave vigorous and appropriately mocking.

“We’ll think of you when we’re _not_ having to ski around people lazing about in the middle of the slope!” Weiss returns.

Trademark barbs exchanged, Yang closes the door to the apartment, and turns to Ruby, grin wide and excited.

“You got the stuff?”

Ruby bounces in place, nodding rapidly. “In the spare room.”

“Let’s get to poaching, then.”

—

They’ve been planning the break-in for a while now, long before Blake had come around with that smile that made her want to do all sorts of things she probably shouldn’t, so Yang doesn’t have to waste any time contemplating her motives as they gather their gear.

The plan involves two battery-operated karaoke machines, heavy-duty military binoculars, a snowmobile, some fairly impressive acrobatics over a chain link fence, a minor amount of alcohol-based bribery, and the assistance of one Peter Port.

Other snowboarders have made it onto the mountain before, of course, but Yang thinks she and Ruby might be the first to slide down the slopes of Deer Valley while singing _Since U Been Gone_ through microphones connected to speakers strapped to their backs.

Blake laughs so hard that she nearly falls over, wobbling into a turn and skidding out like an amateur, nearly sliding into Weiss in the process. She’s unconcerned by the atypical clumsiness though, tugging her goggles up, eyes light, as Ruby and Yang start to circle around them, the targeted nature of their serenading far more obvious now. Weiss hates it, of course, but only in the way she ‘hates’ it whenever Yang or Ruby tease her with those particular smiles that mean they’ve known each other _forever_ , maybe, since the start of almost everything good that’s existed in Weiss Schnee’s life. In a way that spreads her face in a frown so put upon, it might as well be a grin. In a way that says she knows how these sisters love and — even if she’ll never stop grumbling about it — it will always make her feel full.

Yang feels that way as well, full of everything that matters and she thinks that maybe — trespassing on a stupid skier-only mountain, nearly getting tangled in the wires of Ruby’s microphone, Blake’s laughter and Weiss’s grumbling in her ears — she’s as happy as she’s ever been.

Afterwards, long past the part where she and Ruby have to _sprint_ to their car to avoid mountain security, Blake sends her a text containing a single photo: Yang and Ruby’s pictures — both clearly printed off of photographs coming from Weiss’s phone — tacked up on a ‘banned from the premises’ bulletin board, presumably in the Staff Only area of the main Deer Valley lodge.

 _Dreams do come true_ , Yang texts back, and means it.

—

“You’re the only person under thirty-five who calls people, I swear.”

Yang laughs, throwing herself onto her bed, bouncing a little with the force of it. It’s a Friday night and she could be anywhere, but none of it had sounded quite as appealing as staying in her bedroom, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, Blake’s voice in her ear. She’d thought of a few more exciting ways to bring about the specific combination, but Yang had figured calling would be the safest.

(She’s stomping all along the line, but has yet to topple over.)

“I already told you, I like hearing your voice.”

“See, that feels like a line.”

“I don’t use _lines_! I just value _human connection_ , Blake. All this newfangled texting and computer machines and tiny little screens! What happened to just _talking_ to people?”

She’s rewarded with a soft laugh that sends a little jolt down her spine. Stupid, really, the way such a small thing makes her nearly shiver, but she hardly cares.

“Okay, Grandma.” Blake pauses, and when she continues, her voice sounds incrementally softer, like an admission. “It’s just. I get distracted talking on the phone. I always feel like I should be doing something _else_ and it makes me… antsy, I guess? Whenever I call my parents I have to do it when I’m driving or waxing my skis or something equally mindless.”

“So what are you doing now?” Yang asks, amused rather than offended.

A beat. “Nothing yet. Normally those phone calls are scheduled so I have time to figure something out.”

“Seriously?” Yang’s laugh bursts out of her, unbidden. There isn’t another way to release all the affection surging through her chest. “That’s so cute, Blake. What the fuck. Should I call back in like, thirty minutes or something?”

Even over the phone, she can imagine Blake’s blush in the lifting pitch of her voice. “ _No_! I’m just — I figured I should warn you.”

She hadn’t actually expected Blake to pick up, really. Her plan had mostly involved leaving four to five voicemails, absolutely shooting the shit, relying on a bit of charm to keep the whole thing seeming funny rather than weird. It was a fine line to walk sometimes, but Yang had always straddled it well. People spent way too long trying to play it cool in any sort of relationship, and Yang had little patience for the practice. Obviously.

“I don’t mind if you start spacing out. Besides, it sounds like we’re doomed either way, ‘cause I get the same kind of distracted when I text. I forget to text back for like, hours. And then I feel like a jerk.” Another soft laugh slips out. “Unless it’s with Weiss, because that’s just funny.”

“You’re so mean to her,” Blake chastises, but lightly, a laugh in her voice. “Wasn’t the other day enough?”

“She loves it.” Yang waves off the remark, literally, even though there’s no one around to see it. “And so do you. Admit it, you didn’t think I could be _more_ of a full package, but then you heard me sing.”

“You’re right. I’ve had to reevaluate; after that performance you’ve been firmly knocked back down into the ‘human’ category. There’s no longer a goddess in my contacts.”

“Rude!”

“I respect you too much to lie to you, Yang.”

“Okay, now _you’re_ the one using lines.”

“I would never.”

She’s grinning, she realizes, and the ache of it means that she’s probably been doing so this whole time. Yang stretches out her legs, pointing her toes, and wonders if there’s a consequence to this sort of happiness, the kind of happiness that only comes when you’re on the brink of something incredible.

(And maybe there is. Maybe it’s everything that might happen once you start down. It’s a thought that Yang doesn’t want to spend a lot of time on; there’s something distressing about the idea of the beginning always being the best part.)

 _“Okay, seriously, Blake, I thought you said you’d be ready in — hold up, are you on the_ phone _?_ ”

Yang doesn’t recognize the voice, male and cheerful and distant and — towards the end — muffled, presumably by Blake pressing her phone to her shoulder or thigh. It’s easy to imagine the scene, even if Yang has no idea who the guy is. It’s not jealousy that she feels, not really, but a deep curiosity about who gets to be the person that bursts into Blake’s room unannounced. For Yang, that role has always been filled by Ruby or Weiss, which makes it an important one (if not _the_ most important).

“Yeah. Why don’t you just go, Sun? I can — ” Blake’s voice fades, phone pressed further into whatever fabric is muffling it. Yang catches her own name though, and just _that_ has her heart skipping a beat and a half, stumbling over itself.

“ _Oh my god, dude, you’re so ga— ”_

At that point, Blake definitely mutes her phone, but not before Yang hears her shushing the boy with a series of _adorable_ and frantic sounds. She whistles the start of _Since U Been Gone_ (all the way into the second verse), bare feet swaying with the beat, before Blake returns, slightly breathless, voice a bit higher than usual.

“Yang? I’m so sorry. That was just my roommate. He’s…” The silence stretches on for a good two seconds, the length of a long exhale. “Nosy,” Blake finally lands on.

“No problem. I’m just feeling hashtag blessed that I’m getting _prime_ Blake time.”

“If you say ‘hashtag’ _anything_ again _,_ this will be the last call of yours I take.” There’s laughter in her voice, hardly restrained, cutting through the words, turning them soft and fond.

“I _think_ you’re joking, but I’m not going to risk it.” She pauses, lips twisting as she considers. “Seriously, though, am I keeping you from anything? I did totally call you out of nowhere on a Friday night, so if you had plans…”

“No, it’s not like that.” Odd, the way Blake’s tone turns then, almost curt, like she’s brushing something off instinctively; Yang thinks to call her on it, but she continues, unprompted, words slipping back into a calmer cadence that Yang somehow already knows well. “I’m not always — my roommate is always trying to get me to go out more. He and our friends are all pretty outgoing, but I just need some time to recharge sometimes.”

“I guess we’ve sort of been hogging your time recently.” Yang should probably feel guilty, but doesn’t, too pleased by the notion. “Taking up all of your limited — ah, what’s Weiss call it — people energy? When we were dragging her out all the time in college she like, sat me and Ruby down and explained it with a diagram.”

“Of course she did.” Blake laughs, and there’s a bit of noise: her phone pressing against the side of her face as she shifts in her positioning, maybe. When she continues, her voice sounds closer, but not louder, like the microphone is brushing directly across her lips. It shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does. “But I haven’t felt that way with you. Felt the need to go home and recharge, I mean.”

“That’s wild, since Weiss calls me ‘the most exhausting human she’s ever met’ all the time.” But _oh_ , she can barely get the half-joke out, throat tight with the feeling of it all; she tries again, “And all of this without scheduling a phone appointment, too. What would your parents think?”

“They’d think you were lying.” Blake laughs. There’s a hint of something unexpected in it, like wistfulness or nostalgia, and Yang has to press, has to know (wants to know everything).

“Are you close? With both of them?”

“Physically? No. They’re still both in Guaymas. But otherwise?” Blake pauses, just for a brief moment, but enough for Yang to know it’s not a reflexive sort of answer, like her own might be (even if it would be the opposite for each parent). “Yeah. More so in the past few years. I — ah — went through a bit of a… rough patch when I first moved to the States. Lost touch with them for a while, but it’s — it’s better now. Getting better.”

“Sounds like a story.” Her tone doesn’t quite hit casual, too much curiosity burning in her lungs.

Blake’s hesitance isn’t subtle: a short breath in and a moment that pushes far past a mere pause.

“Doesn’t mean it’s a story you’ve got to tell,” Yang adds, softer now, before Blake has to continue to scramble for an answer that she’d be comfortable giving.

Blake’s _relief_ isn’t subtle either: a long breath out and an apology laced into her next words, even without the ‘sorry’.

“I fell in with the wrong kind of people,” she murmurs. “People who were angry about things they had a right to be angry about. But it wasn’t… productive. Or constructive? It took me too long to realize it, and when I did it was — ” Another exhale, loud and a little shaky. “Hard.”

In the next stretch of silence, Yang shifts onto her side, left hand sliding under her cheek, right pressing her phone in place. It’s easy to fit Blake in the space next to her, to imagine the way she’d mirror her posture, eyes dipping away as she speaks, a soft pinch of skin at the middle of her forehead. Yang would know how to respond then (would reach out and brush her fingers over the wrinkles in her brow or along her hip or against her cheek), but now, with only wavelengths connecting them, she only licks her lips and hesitates.

She’s always preferred action over words, verbs before nouns.

(It’s not always worked in her favor.)

“Family is hard.” When the words do come out, they’re slow; she’s testing them out, unsure if they convey what she means. “I don’t just mean relatives, either. The people you choose, too. If you pick the wrong sort it can be… hard, yeah. Harder, maybe. Though I guess when it goes wrong, it can feel like your fault either way. Even when it isn’t. Especially when it isn’t.”

“Sounds like a story,” Blake says, and there’s a quiet sort of smile to the throwback.

Yang’s happy to share, to even the score; it’s a new feeling.

“I mentioned Summer before, right? But Summer was Ruby’s mom — biologically, I mean. My mom sort of just _left_ when I was born.” She pauses, unused to talking about it so freely, not positive why she is now. “When I got older I thought — I dunno — I thought it was important that I find her. That if I could just _talk_ to her she would realize that she should’ve stuck around, or something.” Yang shakes her head, letting out a short laugh. “It didn’t go that way. Took me a little while to come to my realization too: that all of that was on her, and that I had a pretty great family already, without her in it. People who actually cared about me, you know?”

She can hear Blake’s soft exhale, the sound of agreement.

“That’s the trick, isn’t it? Finding those.”

“Yeah.” Yang grins, curling into herself slightly, into the comfort of it. “But I think we’re both doing pretty good now. Don’t you?”

It feels like an understatement, right then. The ground is crumbling and reforming, mountains growing beneath her feet, lifting her high, and _pretty good_ is all she can say. But Blake knows. Of course she knows.

“Yeah,” she echoes, softer, but still sure. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Hypothesis: ‘Darcy vs Elizabeth’ is just the polite version of asking whether someone is a top or bottom. Discuss.  
> 2) The Coco Effect story is for Merc. For all your Coco Adel Loving Hour needs, please follow [lightsaroundyourvanity](http://lightsaroundyourvanity.tumblr.com/)  
> 3) Today I realized the acronym for this fic is yam fog, and it made me laugh. I’m a simple woman with simple pleasures.  
> 4) Also I KNOW; me @ me: let them be alone, you coward. (Next time, folks.)


	4. count it down

_Coming up, I was a fighter_  
_No apologizing_  
_The sky is looking brighter_  
_As the sun is rising_  
_Three, two, one, count it down_  
_Swim or drown  
_ _I'm just glad I tried_

[Matt & Kim, _Glad I Tried_ ]

—

Religion has never really been Yang’s thing — all the pomp and judgement and promises of salvation — but the winter holidays are another situation entirely. The day after Thanksgiving means the Spotify Christmas playlists are going _strong_ , the decorations start going up, and the presents (the many _, many_ presents) are already mostly bought and ready to be wrapped. It’s about as much preparation as Yang gives anything, honestly, and if she were inclined to dig a little deeper, there might be something to that.

(The _something_ would be this:

It’d always been Summer’s favorite holiday and she went all out: the tree, the presents, the cookies, the spirit of Christmas removed from its roots. Yang, not yet seven, hadn’t realized that it would all disappear without her there. The year after is better — their dad no longer in his haze — but it’s hard to forget that first year: Ruby crying for a good part of the day, and Yang spending the entirety of it convincing her that they were lucky, that their _new_ winter holiday — thus christened ‘Wintermas’ — lasted _three_ days, rather than just the one. It’s impossible to forget that first year, on the night of the 25th, when Yang had wrapped her own toys, drawings, clumsy origami snowflakes — anything she could find or make — to place under a wilting Emerald Bay for Ruby to find the next morning, dozens and dozens of items wrapped in old newsprint and mail.)

But Yang _isn’t_ particularly inclined to inject that level of pathos to any of it — at least not out loud — so it’s never mentioned, even if it sits there, underneath it all. The end result is the same, introspection or no, and that end result is some first-rate apartment decorating: a Christmas tree too large for their apartment, kitchen cabinets coated in wrapping paper and bows, tinsel in every room, santa hats taped on to _any_ vaguely humanoid figure in _any_ hung artwork, stockings for all three of them, and enough bulbed lights — in red and green and white and blue and yellow — to noticeably raise the electricity bill for the month.

(Weiss has never complained. Not once. Yang’s pretty sure it has something to do with the way Ruby’s face lights up just like the little bulbs strung all around the room. Or maybe it’s how Yang hums jingles when she hangs them. Or perhaps it’s just because Weiss, all those years ago, had barely managed to fight back tears the first time she was asked over to their house for a family holiday dinner.)

“A _little_ to the left!”

Yang shifts on the stepladder, lifting onto her toes, and leans out over the side as she pushes the Grinch plush toy (a new addition to their decorations as of that afternoon, when Ruby’s pout — more effective than anything in Yang’s arsenal — had demanded the purchase) in the direction indicated.

“Perfect!”

Ruby’s waiting with a high-five (and a megawatt grin) when Yang jumps off the ladder, and she obliges with no small amount of enthusiasm, before taking in the apartment, surveying their work with her hands on her hips.

“We are _so_ good at this. We’re like, the _winners_ of Wintermas.”

“And not just because we’re the only ones that celebrate it!” It’d sound mocking coming out of Yang’s mouth, but Ruby manages the sincerity just fine, as she always does. “What’s next on the list?”

“I _think_ we’re ready to start — oh _shit_!”

They’ve set up the various speakers scattered throughout the house to play Christmas music during pretty much _all_ of their waking hours, so it typically fades into the background for the three of them. It’s a pleasant and cheery sort of elevator music that sets the mood rather than adding anything particularly significant, with two _very_ important exceptions: the iconic Mariah Carey anthem, _All I Want for Christmas Is You,_ and the song starting now, plucky synth beats _instantly_ recognizable to Yang (obviously), but also Ruby, who _gasps_ in time with Yang’s swear, shoulders bobbing up and down before she can finish the dramatic inhale.

 _Wonderful Christmastime_ by Paul McCartney is, quite possibly, the worst Christmas song of all time. The keyboard effects sound like gassy mechanical frogs, the lyrics are _objectively_ terrible, the same phrase repeats approximately 791 times, there’s finger snapping involved, and Yang’s pretty sure it samples _Galaga_. It’s an absolute trainwreck of a song with _zero_ redeeming qualities.

Yang and Ruby love it _desperately._

They also have a fairly coordinated routine. This mostly involves screaming the lyrics back and forth at each other and jumping on various pieces of furniture. Yang’s in the middle of the (tragically) verbalized ‘ding dong, ding dong’s, balancing on one of the arms of their couch and gyrating her hips in a manner that — in no way, shape, or form — matches the beat or vibe of the song, when she realizes that she and Ruby are definitely not alone in the apartment any longer. It takes Ruby a bit longer, wrapped up in some kind of air keyboard solo as she is, her red, knee-high Spider-Man socks allowing her to slide back and forth across the kitchen counter as she dances atop it.

“Well,” Weiss sighs. “I guess this is better than the last time I came home to this sort of thing.”

(The last time had involved a _small_ get-together turned rager, but only _after_ Weiss had left to go study at the library. She’d returned to Ruby passed out at the very top of their highest bookcase, Ren making filet-o-fish knockoffs, Pyrrha playing darts with a blindfold — and no dartboard, and knives instead of darts — Jaune dancing on the very same counter Ruby now occupied, and Yang receiving a fairly involved lapdance from Nora on a chair that Weiss had since donated.)

There’s a lot more amusement in Weiss’s eyes now than there’d been then, but it’s Blake’s expression that snags Yang, stops her short: it’s _soft_ , eyebrows lifting slightly at the center, eyes a little wider than they typically are. Yang can’t imagine what, exactly, Blake’s seeing, but she knows she wants to show it to her more often, so Blake will look at her like that all the time.

“Weiss! Blake!” Ruby hops off the counter, unabashed, and steps over to give them both a hug. Blake looks surprised, tensing briefly, but relaxes into it before Ruby can let go.

“‘Tis the season for carols and lots of hugging,” Yang explains with a smile, though when she steps off of the couch, she doesn’t offer a hug of her own. There’s too much there, too much that she’s still not yet sure exactly how to navigate, especially not in front of her sister and _Weiss_.

“Apparently. I saw the tree last time, but it looks like your decorations have… multiplied.” Blake glances around, a laugh slipping out. “I didn’t realize you guys were so into Christmas around here.”

“Oh, it’s not Christmas. That’d be blasphemy.” Weiss rolls her eyes in that fond way she always does and gestures towards the living room coffee table. “Just take a look at the Nativity Scene.”

Glancing at Yang, Blake’s left eyebrow juts up and down, but Yang merely jerks her head to the side, in the direction Weiss had indicated, and Blake steps around her — shoulders brushing together, but only just — to take a closer look at the set.

“We do things a little _differently_ in this family.”

Blake’s laugh is short and crisp, but not without humor. “You’re right. This is definitely blasphemy.”

“You’re not like, super religious, are you?” Yang follows her steps, moving alongside her. “‘Cause we can probably find a Jesus to put in there.”

“Oh, no, I think the Green Ranger looks great in the manger. And Pink and Yellow as Mary and Joseph? Inspired.” She touches one of the action figures gently, finger flicking against the plastic helmet. “Besides,” she adds, lips curling, “I’m Italian and Mexican; between visiting my four grandparents, I’ve probably seen more baby Jesuses than the Pope. This is a nice change.”

“Oh, creepy.” Yang sucks on her teeth. “Catholic?”

“Severely.” Her lips quirk. “Though the only part that rubbed off on me was the guilt.”

There’s no warning before a weight hits Yang in the back, arms wrapping around her neck, but she knows Ruby well enough to pretty much _always_ be expecting a surprise piggy-back ride, especially when there’s a couch behind her for easy access, so her arms hook under her sister’s knees without much delay.

“There’s _no_ guilt allowed during Wintermas!” Ruby declares, loud in Yang’s ear. “Only pillow forts and holiday movies and footie pjs and origami snowflakes and _presents_ and Spritzgebäck!”

Blake looks thoroughly confused, but smiles, eyes flicking between Yang and Ruby’s. “I have a lot of questions.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty standard. Basically, we made up our own holiday when we were kids and it’s kind of stuck, over the years.”

“It’s _three_ days, starting on the 25th, but a lot of stuff happens beforehand too. Like, we always start making the cookies a week before the official start, which is today!”

“When I was a child, our butler, Klein, used to make Spritzgebäck for Christmas,” Weiss calls from the kitchen, where she’s pulling out various ingredients, grouping them neatly on the counter. “I brought them the first time I stayed at Ruby and Yang’s for the holidays.”

“Klein was like, the only vaguely humanoid being in the Schnee household.” Voice low, Yang leans in towards Blake to further explain; it brings all three of their heads together, what with Ruby still hanging off her back. “He even came over to our house teach me and Ruby how to make the cookies right so we could surprise Weiss with them.”

“They’re _so_ good!” Ruby sighs, leaning back enough that her interlocked hands squeeze just a _bit_ too tight on Yang’s neck; Yang leans forward to alleviate the pressure, throwing Ruby further up onto her back. “Like little buttery, flakey strips of heaven.”

“They only take around thirty minutes to make, if you want to stick around and try the first batch.” It’s easy to be light and breezy now, the spirit of the holidays (and her sister on her back), giving everything the most innocent of vibes. “Plus, it’s always good to know how to bake something that’s like, an instant de-escalation tactic for when you’ve done something that Weiss _may_ not approve of.”

“You must make these a _lot_ , then.”

“Hey!” Yang straightens, causing Ruby to cling a little tighter with all available limbs, freeing up Yang’s arms in the process. She places one on her chest in a show of high drama, and the exaggerated afront makes Ruby laugh and Blake smile. “Weiss loves me! She’s practically obsessed with me!”

“She makes them a lot,” Weiss says, tone dry, even when projected.

“ _Fine_ , but that just means Blake will be learning from the master.” She grins and winks. “So what do you say? Want to join in on some Wintermas?”

“Oh, how could I possibly say no to the _master_?”

So much for light and breezy. Yang takes one look at the twist of Blake’s lips and reaches behind to poke Ruby in the side — right in the spot where she’s most ticklish — sending her flying off Yang’s back with a squeal. It makes things a _little_ easier.

“Let’s... make some cookies, then.”

—

(The Spritzgebäck turn out perfect: light and crispy.

This is likely in spite of Yang’s help, rather than because of it, given the _minor_ flour fight she starts, and then finishes, pouring the remainder of the bag onto Blake’s pretty black hair.

She ends up having to make a few dozen more cookies as recompense, but it’s alright.

The company means it's hardly a punishment at all.)

—

The experience does convince Yang of one thing: she’s going to finish Blake’s skis before Christmas.

(The vow has something to do with the look in Blake’s eyes when they’d made the Spritzgebäck, flour still in her hair, as she’d told them about the treats she’d made as a child — buñuelos, she’d called them, tongue forming the syllables with a strange sort of gentleness — with her mother every year at Christmas. It’s the wistfulness that gets her, like maybe it’s not a tradition that’s lasted, even though Blake mentions she’s visiting family for the holidays, flying home in a few days. There’s _something_ there, but then, there’s usually something there when it came to Blake.)

Really, the only thing that’s kept Yang from finishing them in the first place are the several other custom builds in her workload, all due by the same deadline. But Ruby’s designs are finished, loaded into the CNC, basic parts already cut out, and what’s a few more sleepless nights?

It seems a small price to pay, especially after it’s _done_ and they’re bringing Blake back to the workshop, a blindfold tied around her eyes, steering her around the various pieces of machinery and workbenches until they have her standing in front of her brand new skis, only the top tape left to peel off.

“Do you do this to all your clients?” Blake asks, smile small and tilted. “Or am I just special?”

“I don’t bring out the blindfold for just anyone, Blake.” She leans a little closer than she should, probably, but can’t resist bringing her mouth _just_ alongside Blake’s ear. She shivers, and Yang wants to bite at the skin where her shoulder meets her neck. It turns her words into a soft rasp, a low mess, instead of the cheerful quip they’re meant to be. “You’re _definitely_ special.”

Weiss doesn’t notice, thank god, and Ruby is too busy basically bouncing in place, holding Blake’s new skis in front of her with visibly mounting excitement. Still, she’s testing her luck; if she doesn’t remove the blindfold soon, Yang’s pretty sure Ruby will spring over and do it for her. And that, combined with the fact that Blake is now licking her lips (she’s noticed them before, maybe more than once or twice, but they seem more prominent now, redder, one of the few features visible with Yang’s purple bandana covering half her face) makes her think that it’s probably past time for her to move forward with this whole event.

“Ready?”

Blake nods, one sharp movement.

“I think I’m going to need a drumroll. Especially from Weiss.” She leans close again, but this time her whisper, meant to be heard, is _actually_ a cheerful quip. “It’s embarrassing, honestly. I didn’t know people could be bad at _drumrolls_.”

“You’re ruining the moment, Yang,” Weiss practically sing-songs.

“Fine, fine.” She sticks her tongue out at Weiss before tugging the knot undone on the blindfold, pulling it slowly across Blake’s face. “I know it’s a few days early, but… Merry Christmas, Blake Belladonna.”

After spending dozens of hours on Blake’s skis — designing the graphic, cutting out the materials, flame-treating the steel, stacking and pressing the parts, cutting them out of the block — Yang doesn’t need to look at them again. Instead, she watches Blake.

A number of emotions cross the woman’s face then — too quickly and subtly for anyone to properly catalogue — but as Blake takes a half step forward and presses the tips of her fingers (just the middle and ring, _barely_ brushing against it) to the top sheet, shoulders moving with her inhale, Yang thinks she probably gets the gist.

“ _Oh_ ,” Blake says.

The desire to reach out is strong enough that Yang has to shove her hands into the pockets of her jeans; she’s torn between the need to watch _every_ inflection on Blake’s face and the impulse to give her a moment to experience it on her own, and her shoulders hunch as she finds a compromise: head dropping, eyes lifting.

“Yang went with the design you two talked about before, obviously,” Ruby begins, excitement still present, but voice purposefully muted. “And she used a super light core, so even though we lengthened the skis, I think you’ll still be happy.” She tilts one of the skis forward, and Blake takes it, lifting the tail off the ground, movements measured. “I used the bindings — and DIN settings — that you have on your downhill skis, but we can make more adjustments once you take these out for the first time! Hopefully with us!”

Blake nods, three times, and looks away from the skis, finding Ruby’s eyes first and then turning and stepping back, so she can meet Weiss’s and, finally, Yang’s as well.

“They’re perfect.” And Yang would have put in twice the number of hours — three times, four times — just to see Blake smile like she does now, completely unrestrained. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. Really.”

Weiss’s huff breaks through the moment, cracking it like it’s made of glass. “And here’s where Yang says something stupid about not looking in the mirror often enough,” she sighs, smile more prominent than she probably realizes.

“Oh my _god_ , Weiss, that’s so _good_!” Yang pulls her hands out of her pockets, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re hitting on Blake for me now.”

“I’m not — ”

“I’m so charmed.” Blake’s voice has settled back into something more composed, her typical tone, full of dry amusement. (Yang can’t quite figure out if she’s relieved or disappointed.) “If I swoon, it’ll be into Weiss’s arms and she can just _pass me off_ to Yang.”

“You know, that works for me. Thanks, Weiss!” She holds up her hand for a high-five, but is left hanging, only getting an eye roll in return. Thankfully, Ruby — physically unable to see the gesture unanswered — hands off Blake’s second ski and jumps forward, slamming her palm into Yang’s, sound cracking through the room.

Blake laughs as she slides her skis together (Yang catches her staring, once more, at the graphic, fingers tracing along one edge of the shadow), and places them carefully on one of the workbenches, edge down. As she steps around Blake and offers her a ski sleeve to hold them in, Weiss squeezes her arm, as affectionate of a gesture as she would give Yang or Ruby. It makes Yang smile and throw an arm around Ruby’s shoulders, and her sister looks up and gives her a bright grin of her own.

“Actually, I guess now is as good of a time as any to mention it,” Blake begins, as she and Weiss finish placing her new skis in the bag. “But I figured out how to repay you three. Or… how to try.” She turns, lips curled into something almost shy. “Let me show you.”

—

“Do you know what comes up when when I try to find you guys on Google?”

They’re gathered around Yang’s computer, Blake sitting in the chair, Yang leaning down behind her, chin nearly resting on her shoulder. Weiss and Ruby are on either side of her, closer than they need to be, probably, but they hardly notice; it’s habit at this point; the three of them bending around each other, spilling into each other’s lives.

(Yang probably shouldn’t, but she stares at Blake’s fingers, dexterous and fast, as she logs on to her Gmail account. It makes focusing on anything else a little difficult, to a sort of embarrassing degree; worse, Weiss notices, nudging her sharply, elbow digging into her bicep.)

“Wait. You can find us on Google?” Yang asks.

“Exactly.” It’s easy to imagine the look on her face, even if Blake doesn’t turn back. “I can’t. Because you _don’t have a company name_. You realize that’s sort of Marketing 101, right? Or, no, that’s being too generous. That’s preschool marketing.”

“Hey!” Weiss flicks Blake’s ear, eliciting a surprising sort of giggle that makes both Ruby and Yang laugh. “I have _tried_ , but _some_ people have objections.”

“Schnee Skis!” Ruby groans. “She wanted to name it _Schnee Skis_!”

Yang leans in, stage whispering in Blake’s ear. “And you know her dad is like, fucking Tony Stark or some shit, right?”

“Pre-redemption Tony Stark, though! And totally evil, ugly, and not even smart enough to make his own _dastardly_ weapons.”

“Dastardly,” Yang repeats, words curling in a drawl, almost the same way her lips do. “Oh boy, _dastardly_. Ruby is in _full_ comic nerd mode. I’m surrounded by every type of possible nerd right now. _God_. I’m the _lone_ non-loser.”

Yang rocks backwards with the force of the shoves she receives from Ruby and Weiss, but she bounces back, smile undisturbed.

“Schnee Skis is pretty bad. _But_ ,” she continues, over Yang’s shout of triumph, “even with the unfortunate connection to Schnee Industries and the fact that you all don’t _just_ make skis, it’s better than _nothing_. Honestly, how do you even get customers without a name?”

“It’s always been mostly word of mouth. And we’ve always had enough to do, since we’re doing it all on top of jobs and school and whatnot. Customers just talk about us by name. Like, go to Ruby — or me, I guess — to get customs, you know?”

“Word of mouth is a valuable tool. It’s how a lot of small businesses start.” Blake looks back towards them, the ‘but’ visible in the set of her lips. “Generally, though, it helps for people to have a _name_ to spread with their mouths. Or a website. The only place I could find anything was on Yang’s Instagram.”

“Oh, shit! You _did_ stalk me!” She tugs on Blake’s chair, tilting it back just enough to get a clear look at the woman’s face; there’s no blush, but Blake can’t _quite_ meet her eyes, either. “Did you like the Crossfit pictures?”

Weiss hits her again, an entirely half-hearted slap with the back of her hand, but it’s enough to get Yang to release the chair, sending it gently rocking forward again; Blake twists to keep them all in view.

“Moving forward, of _course_ a name and a proper online presence will be a priority.” Weiss sighs. “But Yang _is_ right. For once. Until we make the jump to working on this full-time — and to taking on that inevitable early deficit — we have enough work as is. But I’m hoping that leap comes soon. This summer, even. And _then_ we can reach out to a web designer.”

“Well, that’s sort of what I was building up to.” With a flash of a smile, Blake turns back towards the screen, and Yang’s distracted momentarily by the difference between her own inbox (chaotic, emails unread and unmarked) and Blake’s (everything in its proper place, a million different folders, no unread messages), but that fades away when Blake navigates into an email, clicks on a link, and opens up the new page. “It’ll look better when you have an actual _name_. Or logo. And it’s not finished, obviously. But. Well. This is how I thought I’d repay you.”

She looks almost _bashful_ , shoulders lifted and hands frozen on the keyboard, which is ridiculous because it’s —

“Fuck me,” Yang breathes. “You built us a website.”

— incredible. It’s _incredible_. Blake must have pulled the videos and images off of Yang’s Instagram, because her graphics, Ruby’s designs, they’re all there, splayed across the front page, looking bold and vibrant and _professional_. It’s unfinished, like Blake said, but only on the pages with details that Blake couldn’t have known (pricing and process and the like); in every other way, it looks polished and fucking _awesome_ , as good as Yang’s ever seen from a custom build site.

“ _I_ didn’t build it,” Blake returns, seemingly oblivious to the three women behind her, quietly losing their _shit_. “I just called in a few favors; my friend Neptune is a web developer, so he’s the one who put it together. But I came up with the design and filled in all the details I could. There’s still a lot of work to be done, but I thought…” She trails off and _finally_ turns her chair around, a smile blooming when she spots the three of them.

“It’s so _beautiful_!” Ruby jumps up and down (three times) before throwing her arms around Blake and then quickly pulling back again, shoulders vibrating with the force of her excitement. “Oh my god, Blake! This is like — this is the coolest thing I’ve ever _seen_!”

“ _Neptune_ did this? I didn’t know he was actually talented.” Shaking her head, clearing some of the shock from her face, Weiss smiles. “Probably only with your direction. This is incredible, Blake. Really. It’s _everything_ we would have wanted. But it’s also far, _far_ too much. You did this in less than three weeks! And the market price of a site design like this is — ”

“Wait,” Yang cuts in, jerking her head up and away from the screen. “Neptune? As in the dude who made Weiss realize she was gay?”

Weiss sputters. “He — I — _that’s not what happened_.”

“That’s _kind of_ what happened.” Ruby might sound apologetic if she weren’t still (literally) bouncing around with enthusiasm. “I mean, after the Pyrrha thing you only — ”

“Ruby!”

“ _Anyways_.” As though she hadn’t been the one to derail them, Yang continues, only a wink at Blake betraying her. “This is fucking awesome, Blake. But way more than you needed to do. Seriously.”

“I’ve been hearing Weiss complain about your lack of an online presence pretty much since we met.” Blake leans back, tapping the outside of Weiss’s ankle with her boot. “She was never very subtle about wanting me to join your team, but these past few weeks, it’s gone from hints to everything but outright asking.”

It’s probably a combination of this _and_ Ruby’s earlier comments, but Weiss blushes as hard as Yang’s ever seen. The sight has her bursting into laughter, rocking back onto her heels; Blake joins in, though it’s far more muted, presumably out of some kind of pity.

“Oh, wow, Weiss.” There’s laughter still in her tone, cutting into each word. “Way to approach the idea gently. Way to ease into it.”

“We haven’t — I haven’t — it’s hasn’t actually been brought up! Directly. We haven’t discussed any specifics!”

If possible, Ruby looks even more exuberant now, bouncing from one foot to the other. “Wait. _Wait wait wait_. Does this mean — ? Are you — ?”

“I think Weiss and I still have a few things to discuss,” Blake begins slowly. “But I love what you three are doing. And I want to be more involved. If everything works out.”

“Oh, _hell_ yeah!” Yang pumps both of her fists, then grabs Blake’s hands and tugs her out of the chair; she stumbles forward, surprise clear, but smiles once upright.

(Blake’s eyes really _are_ gold, Yang realizes then; she’d thought maybe it was a trick of the light when they’d first met, but no, this close, in full light, and she can see the various shades of light brown blending together in a color that couldn’t be described any other way.)

“The pay is _shit_ ,” she adds. “But the co-workers make up for it.”

“Yeah.” Blake glances around at them all, eyes bright, and _yeah_ , Yang’s heart swells with the feeling of everything falling right into place. “That’s sort of what’s tipped me over the edge.”

—

The feeling carries well into the evening. Blake’s flight leaves the next day — a red-eye she’d gotten with points — so the four the them decide to order in and make the most of the impromptu holiday celebration. There’s hardly a dining table in the workshop, but they make the best of the worn couch, computer chairs, and small drafting table (that Yang only uses when she can’t bear look at another screen), and crowd in, forms overlapping and folding into each other like the stories they share. Weiss is in the middle of telling Blake about their last Wintermas — making excuses about why she’d come in third place in the 2017 Arm Wrestling Tournament — before Yang realizes how late it’s gotten, enough to push (technically) into the next day. She wouldn’t mind, normally, but she has three more boards to finish in the next two days, and Ruby’s getting to the point in the night where she either starts to wind down or doesn’t sleep at all. Yang figures it’s best for all of them if she starts to wrap things up, as much as she’d prefer to continue cataloguing all the different ways Blake smiles.

“Alright, alright. Complain all you want about your supposed ‘wrist injury’, but this year is going to be _exactly_ the same; either you or Ruby will make it through the first round, _completely_ depending on luck, and then the other noodle-arm will get knocked out in the second round. And then I’ll beat Dad and be crowned champion.”

Yang stands, stretching her arms out wide and twisting her back, one way then the other, before continuing. “That’s how it always goes. Just like how Ruby always wins the Pie Eating Contest and Dad wins at Bottle Stacking and you win at the Fork Toss.”

“You all have the _strangest_ holiday traditions.” Blake laughs softly, but stands as well, gaze flicking towards her wristwatch. “I’ve never heard of anything like it.”

“Maybe you should stick around next year, check it out.” The smile spreads across her face before she can help it, as spontaneous as the words. “Or come back earlier. It’s a multi-day event, after all.”

“Oh, yeah! You’d be good at a ton of stuff, Blake! Like, the Dish Flip, I bet! Or Ice Cluster!” Ruby pops off the couch, clapping her hands together once, and Blake stares at her in something approaching bewilderment.

“How many events _are_ there?”

“Fifteen,” Weiss drawls, warm smile clashing with her put-upon tone. “It’s _exhausting_.”

“Ruby was an active kid. It took a lot to keep her occupied.” Staring at Ruby — who’s started to stack all the take-out containers in a wobbling tower, precariously balanced along her forearm — Yang amends her statement. “It _takes_ a lot to keep her occupied.”

“Let me help, you goof,” Weiss tsks, sweeping in to partially dissemble Ruby’s construction into something less likely to immediately collapse. “And then I can take you home, Blake.”

Yang’s pretty sure she hides her disappointment well enough. Wrapping things up had been her idea, after all, and she’s had plenty of time to prepare for the inevitable goodbyes.

(She doesn’t think she’d be able to swing a plausible reason for why _she_ should be the one to drive Blake home, not when Blake’s stuff is already in Weiss’s car. The _real_ reason is that she hasn’t been alone with Blake, not once, and she’s aching to see what will happen — if the combustion she feels constantly on the verge of will result — once it’s just the two of them. But Weiss probably won’t find that reason particularly compelling. Or desirable.)

But as Ruby and Weiss step away, off in search of the recycling bin (which seems to move around the workshop more than it should), Blake stops her from joining them, fingers circling her wrist, gentle but sure. Her _stupid_ heart rate picks up, at nothing more than that simple touch, like she’s thirteen and holding hands with a girl for the first time that it matters. Even when Blake pulls away (too fast, too soon), there’s no relief, but maybe that has something to do with the way Blake’s still so _close_ , watching Yang _so_ carefully, a small, quiet smile in place.

“I just wanted to thank you.”

Yang calms (a little), smile settling. “I think you already did that.”

“Thank you _again_ , then. Or. Thank you, specifically.” She’s close enough to hear Blake swallow. “Yang, your art — I — I don’t know how you thought of something so beautiful and so — ” She shakes her head, smile tightening, losing a little bit of her earnestness. “Sorry, I don’t know how you always — I’m not used to being so…” She lets out a breath. “... Open.”

“Yeah. I kind of picked up on that.” Her laugh isn’t quite as full as it normally might be, still caught on that sharp edge of Blake’s lips, and she’s relieved when she sees them soften.

“I know you did.” Blake’s forehead pinches, eyes narrowing in thought, or maybe even discomfort. “Really soon, actually. I’m not used to that either.”

 _Oh_ , so they’re bringing this up now. Whatever it is.

Tugged in like the tide, Yang takes another half step forward. Blake’s shorter than her — she’s noticed it before — but it feels more obvious now, the toes of their boots nearly touching, Blake’s chin lifting to hold her stare. And _god_ , she’s definitely _staring_.

“Feels a little new for me too.” She licks her lips; it doesn’t help (she’s not sure why she thought it would). “When you get back we should… talk.”

Blake shakes her head. Once. Slow. “I don’t think we need to _talk_ anymore at all.”

All of Yang’s breath comes out in a rush.

 _Oh_.

She might say it aloud. It’s impossible to say, really, because right then, Yang can hardly think over the loud thud of her heartbeat against her skull. Blake doesn’t look _sure,_ not in the way she’d expect, but she looks determined, maybe, like she hasn’t finished sorting things out, but she knows there’s something that needs to be addressed, and knows the way she wants to address it. Yang can hardly find it in herself to object to the methods she apparently has in mind, not when Blake’s eyes glint in a way that’s familiar, if only in the most basic of ways (even if the result — the sensation that passes through her frame — is so intense it feels like something else entirely).

“Blake! You ready to go?”

This time, there’s no question: Yang’s whine is _definitely_ audible. It’d be embarrassing if Blake didn’t pretty much snarl at the interruption as well. Somehow, they’d been able to manage it — manage _this_ — throughout the weeks, but now that it’s out in the open, verbalized, it’s painful to delay. It makes _not_ murdering Weiss more difficult than it should be, only helped by the fact that Yang is physically unable to tear her gaze away from Blake, let alone take a step in any direction other than towards her.

“Later,” she promises, voice low, even to her own ears. “When you get back.”

Blake nods again. “Later,” she echoes.

For a moment, Yang isn’t sure they’ll be able to break free, but then Blake’s jaw tightens, and she brushes past, movements quick and coiled; by the time Yang can manage to turn, she’s already nearly out of sight, striding towards the front door of the workshop, Weiss in tow, Ruby waving after both of them, a chorus of holiday well wishes echoing back and forth. It feels a little surreal, out of place, and Yang takes in a long breath to settle herself, reaches out for the closest workbench — palm resting on the smooth wood — to ground herself in the familiar.

It doesn’t really work.

Relief will only come with release, and the only source of _that_ just walked out the door.

—

Distractions are all she has left, but thankfully, those are plentiful.

She’s back at the workshop early the next morning, ready to bury herself in the physical labor of putting a board together. She has a few more to finish, and she’s grateful for the workload. The finishing is mostly grunt work: cutting out the parts and pressing it all together, and she’s able to get lost in the details of it, in the hum of the saws and hiss of the hydraulics.

She’s at the edger, sanding down the sides of the core of the second board on her docket, when she hears the door open, sound echoing in the silence that exists as she transitions from one side of the board to another. (She’d tried playing music at first, but found herself getting lost within the lyrics, hearing lyrics to pull out and connect to in every stupid song; she hadn’t _really_ realized that every song on every playlist and every station was about lust or love until just then.)

“I told you to take the whole day off,” she calls, voice muffled by the bandana tied around her mouth, tucked under her safety goggles, keeping the sawdust out. “Seriously, Ruby, you already did your part. I’ll finish all this up by tonight and get them delivered by Sunday.”

“It’s not Ruby.” Lucky, really, that Yang isn’t at the saw, because when she hears Blake’s voice, she nearly drops the board, pressing the edge too hard into the belt. “But she’s the one who mentioned you were here.”

If it were anyone else, Yang would probably be ready, take control of the situation with a smug grin, a drawling ‘couldn’t stay away?’. But she can’t find that confidence now, focused instead on turning off the machine, pulling off her bandana, ripping the goggles off her face, and _staring_ as Blake steps closer.

“We were texting. She mentioned she felt bad that you had to come in to work. Alone.”

Blake looks good (because she always looks good); there are flecks of snow in her hair and on the coat tucked over her arm, already starting to melt in the heat of the workshop, but Yang’s gaze hits on them only momentarily, dragged away by the brown skin exposed at her collarbone and neck, plum sweater cutting across diagonally, hanging off one of her shoulders.

“I thought you — what are you doing here?” Not smooth, not graceful, but _god_ , a woman can only take so much. She’s surprised she manages any words at all, that she can place the board-in-progress _gently_ on the bench and step away, peeling her gloves off and tossing them somewhere her eyes don’t follow.

“I — ” It’s reassuring, at least, to see Blake not exactly at the top of her game either, mouth opening and closing as she tries to find words that will fit. And as she moves closer, Yang can see the blush, the darkening of her skin across her cheeks. “I don’t know. I couldn’t leave before — ” She shakes her head, changing course. Her swallow is heavy. “I need to get you out of my system.”

Yang can’t relate. She wants Blake in every part of her, tearing through her nerves — scorching along them without any distinction — burning a path, leaving only her name and touch behind. She wants to sink into it and be fully consumed, if only for a moment.

But then — as Yang closes the gap between them and watches Blake’s eyes (pupils blown) flick down to her lips — maybe that’s what Blake had been saying, after all.

And then Blake takes it further, makes it perfectly clear.

“So you should kiss me now.”

She says it like Yang hasn’t wanted to for weeks — months or years, even if that’s not right at all — since they first met.

But still. But _still._

“Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

Blake’s eyes widen, then, as soon as she catches sight of Yang’s small smile (her last ditch attempt at levity, at _careful_ ) narrow again. Her lips curl.

“ _Yang_ ,” she growls.

Yang doesn’t really have anything left after that.

Her hand finds Blake’s hip first, she thinks — palm pressing into the bone and fingers curling around back — but the rest soon follows, her lips next, probably, slotting over Blake’s, tilting just enough to overlap, messy from the start. Blake makes a sound — a soft hum that sounds like _yes_ — and then her hands are on Yang, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt and pulling her closer, but not nearly close enough; Yang takes another step, even if there’s nowhere to go, pushing Blake back, both of them stumbling with the motion. Her feet catch on something (Blake’s coat that she’s dropped on the floor, she’ll realize, but only much, much later) and she kicks it aside, free hand finding Blake’s jaw, making sure she stays in place, even when Yang has to pull away to suck in a quick breath.

“Yang,” Blake says again — breathes it — and _oh_ , yeah, they’re _definitely_ not close enough. Yang suddenly knows they’re just _not close enough_. “I — ”

She bites Blake’s bottom lip, stopping the thought, and then sucks it in between her own. Blake must be wearing some kind of balm, because there’s a flavor there, something Yang can’t identify, but knows she likes.

“I — Wait.” The word breaks through the haze and Yang tries to pull back, hands dropping away, only to be stopped by the tightening of Blake’s grip, straining the neck of Yang’s shirt. “I don’t — I don’t want anything complicated,” she exhales, close enough that Yang feels it on her lips. “I should have said before. I just want — I want simple.”

Blake’s eyes are wide, almost pleading, and Yang blinks, thoughts stumbling over each other, none of them making any forward progress.

“I’m not complicated,” she finally settles on.

“You say that, but — ”

Yang surges forward again, hands finding the back of Blake’s thighs and _lifting_ , weight feeling like nothing at all. Two more steps and she’s at one of the workbenches — the one she’d cut out Blake’s topsheet on not a few days before — and she slides Blake onto it, wood creaking when her own thighs hit the edge.

“ _Baby_ ,” she breathes. “It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

Blake tugs her back in, kiss hungry, and Yang’s hands find her hips once more, fisting the hem of her shirt. She yanks it up halfway before looking for confirmation, Blake’s teeth catching on her lip as she pulls back.

“Right?”

There’s so much skin waiting for her, but she holds Blake’s gaze, hands stilling.

“ _Yeah_.”

She releases Yang’s shirt, hands lifting up, and Yang tears the sweater off — rushed by her own desire — and throws it behind her. Blake’s hands are back on her before she completes the gesture, lips at Yang’s neck, and she feels a little frantic, maybe, a little full of _everything_ when her palms find the bare skin at Blake’s sides.

(Her heart beats against her ribs in a quick staccato: _finally finally finally_.)

Yang is nothing but want — to taste and touch and look — and everything else is secondary, only muscle memory allowing her to undo the button of Blake’s jeans and pull them down (one hard jerk and then another), Blake falling back, elbows hitting the bench beneath her, with the force of it. Something about it — the reveal of skin, the muscles of Blake’s thighs and calves, the way her jeans get stuck until Blake kicks off her boots — feels like it requires appreciation, maybe even worship, and she stops, staring, chest heaving.

“You’re — ” _Beautiful_ , is what she wants to say, but it feels like a line. Or. Doesn’t feel like enough. Still, it’s better than what actually comes out. “ _Fuck_.”

Blake laughs; it does lovely things to her chest (she’s worn a bra with _lace_ , one that _matches_ , and if there was any doubt that she came here for _this_ , it vanishes right then).

“Oh, come on! If you thought I was going to be eloquent with you looking like…”

She trails off, stepping back in between Blake’s legs, fingertips sliding along the skin as she does, stopping at the band of lace just below her hips. She means to spend more time there, but her attention is caught by the scar just above where her right hand rests, a jagged circle that marrs the otherwise smooth skin. Blake jerks when her fingers brush underneath it, tension shooting through her frame almost violently; Yang pulls back quickly, hand sliding further down (the top of Blake’s underwear a safer spot, somehow), and lifts her eyes to apologize.

Blake shakes her head before she can get one out — a quick jerking motion — and sits up, reaching behind her back, unlatching her bra, rather than elaborate or explain. And Yang would like to be the sort of person who isn’t distracted so easily, but she’s definitely, definitely _not_. ( _Later_ , she thinks. Something to come back to _later_.)

“Beautiful,” Yang says, remembering, word a dry rasp. “That’s what I mean before. You’re so —”

The words can’t come as a surprise; Blake _has_ to know it — she must — but her eyes still soften, one hand releasing Yang’s shirt to stroke up her neck, along her jaw, with a touch so gentle it barely connects at all. It makes Yang shiver with something that Blake might consider complicated, so instead of lingering in the touch, she kisses her again, lets the urgency of it all pour through, and slips two fingers under the waistband of patterned lace, tugging down. The action make Blake’s hips lift — makes her mouth open further — and Yang takes advantage of both, ridding Blake of her last bit of clothing and deepening the kiss.

There’s so much she wants to touch, and having it all before her now is an overload. But _oh_ , there’s heat radiating from between Blake’s thighs, and that seems like a good place to start. Her hands slide up, thumbs dragging along, feeling the muscles twitch underneath.

“Fuck,” she pants, pulling away because she has to look. Has to see. “Fuck, Blake, I’ve wanted you forever. Like, since the beginning of fucking time.”

Blake’s lips are full and wet and her shoulders are heaving and Yang doesn’t feel like her words are an overstatement at all. Not even a little.

“Then stop _teasing_ ,” Blake growls. “And fuck me.”

(As though Yang would have been able to last enough second.)

After that — after everything — it’s not a surprise that Blake’s as wet as she is, that Yang slides inside of her as easily as she does. What _is_ a surprise is the way Blake reacts — so _unabashedly_ — head falling back with her soft moan, exposing her neck; it looks like the way ‘finally’ sounds, and Yang _agrees_ , leaning forward so her lips can explore, licking up along the hollow of Blake’s neck. She’s always been the sort to leave marks — to suck and nip until there’s evidence of the pleasure shared — but she wants it desperately now; the thought of Blake looking in the mirror and remembering _just_ how good Yang’s made her feel is enough to make her groan (to make her use teeth).

“I want — ” Blake begins, then stops, hips jerking once.

She releases Yang’s shirt, but only so her fingers can dig into her hair instead, tugging _hard_ , pulling it out of its tie; Yang jolts back, nearly snarling at the sharp sting, but Blake’s eyes are _dark_ and unapologetic, and Yang _likes_ it, more than she thought she would.

“ _More_ , Yang.” It’s a demand, and it makes every muscle in Yang’s stomach clench. “And harder.”

(She’s never been more turned on her life. She’s sure, she’s positive. The need is overpowering, blinding, and nothing else exists.)

Yang slips another finger in and her next thrust is enough to push Blake further up the bench, wood groaning, and — when Yang hitches her arm under Blake’s leg and leans, shifting it onto her shoulder — Blake’s back hits the surface hard, thud echoing around the room, along with the hiss she sucks in, the moaned curse she lets out. The new view is _gorgeous_ , because Blake is falling apart in front of her, all those shadows clicking into place as she loses control, and it’s maybe the most beautiful thing Yang’s ever seen, the way her back arches when Yang’s fingers curl, when she shifts, aligns her palm just right, and presses.

“I’m — ” Blake words aren’t _loud_ — not really — but her movements are. “Yang, I’m — ”

“I know,” Yang pants, wrist aching. “I know, baby. I got you.”

And, no, _this_ is the most beautiful thing Yang’s ever seen, when Blake finds release, eyes closing tight, nails digging into the workbench beneath her, Yang’s name spilling from her lips, hips lifting and then dropping back down, twitching in the afterglow. There’s so much built up in Yang’s chest, mostly want and desire, nearly overflowing, but _god_ there’s wonder too, and her eyes must be wide with it when Blake’s flutter open, lids heavy as she stares up at Yang, licking her lips. Yang pulls her fingers out and, still holding Blake’s gaze, brings them up to her lips to taste, tongue swirling around.

(It’s good. Good enough that she wants to — right then, right away — lean back down and bring Blake to the edge again, this time with her mouth.)

Blake blinks, slow and lazy, but somehow still intent.

“You’re… left-handed?” she asks, voice rough.

Yang’s laugh bursts out, a surprised and gruff sort of thing.

“That’s — no, I’m just — the other arm cramps up sometimes because of the injury and that’s — ” The laugh continues; it’s scratchy, arousal evident. “Jesus, Blake. _That’s_ your takeaway?”

It’d be concerning, maybe, if Blake didn’t look so sated, eyes still a little glazed over.

“ _That_ and that workbenches _really_ aren’t made for this sort of thing.” She sits up on her elbows, motions launguid. “I have sawdust in my hair. And… everywhere.”

She’s not wrong; Yang had hardly noticed (how could she have?) but there’s a fine coat of it on the surface beneath Blake, though most of it has transferred to her her hair and arms and back. She looks absolutely disheveled and thoroughly fucked and — _god_ — so fucking _stunning_.

“It’s a good look.”

It’s honest, tone raw, and Blake’s eyes flash as she sits up all the way, evidently recovered enough to recognize the need that’s settled into every one of Yang’s words, regardless of what they’re meant to say.

“Let’s try it out on you, then,” she murmurs. “Because you’re _really_ overdressed.”

Some people don’t find _eager_ cute, Yang’s well aware, but she also doesn’t care, leaning back and stripping off her shirt with a single jerk. Even with the speed, Blake’s hands are on her stomach, fingers sliding along Yang’s abs, before the shirt has cleared her head, so maybe Yang isn’t the only one feeling overly eager. She hardly minds — more than that, she finds it hot — and it makes her grin, especially when she notices Blake’s heavy swallow.

“Instagram didn’t lie.” Her palms flatten against the muscles.

“Stalker,” Yang says, and her hands, restless at her sides, slide around to Blake’s lower back, tracing along the dip she finds there. “Knew it wasn’t just for research.”

Blake is without shame, her touch wandering, sliding along the underside of Yang’s sports bra.

“I think we’ve _well_ established that I find you attractive,” she purrs. “No need to fish.”

“Sometimes a girl still likes to hear it, Blake.” She leans back again and crosses her arms, pulling off the bra, and waits (settling into smugness) for Blake to pull her back in, which she does — immediately — leaning in, hands settling on her sides, fingers scaling her ribs (rungs of a ladder), skimming the curve of her breasts.

“Yang.” When she breathes out, it’s slow. “You’re really, _really_ hot.”

“Much better. And see?” She kicks off her shoes. Shoves down her jeans and underwear. “Now I feel comfortable getting _naked_.”

“Mm. Yeah. I see.” Blake’s tongue runs along the underside of her teeth and Yang _has_ to kiss her then, _has_ to touch her again, hands back on her thighs, but not for long. She’s past the point where the ache is something that can be set aside.

“Scoot back.” Her breath hitches between the two words, when Blake palms her breast. “I’m gonna sit on your face.”

(It’s hardly romantic, but she figures that’s not what Blake wanted anyways. And there’s something to be said for being direct.)

She wouldn’t call it a laugh, what Blake does then, more like a huff, too much desire laced in to be fully amused. Either way, she slides back on the bench, and Yang climbs up, one knee on either side of her, grinning down. Blake reaches a hand up between her legs, just a curious brush, and then she _does_ laugh, though it’s jagged around the edges.

“You’re not going to last long. So wet already.”

“Only one way to find out,” she says, placing a hand on Blake’s shoulder and pushing her down, gentle enough to still be playful, even if her words spill into something that’s more heated.

She’s not wrong, though. As soon as Blake’s mouth finds her — not teasing, just _sure_ and firm — Yang’s nearly finished, barely at the start. There’s been so much building, and for what feels like so long, that the edge is closer than it’s ever been, each stroke of Blake’s tongue surprisingly effective at nudging her forward.

“Fuck, Blake. That’s — ”

 _A lot_. It’s a lot. Blake’s hands are at her hips, steadying her, and Yang _needs_ it, needs more support than it actually provides, and falls forward, palms slapping against the workbench, noise lost under her loud moan (the shift against Blake’s mouth is _exactly_ what she needs and she’s never been the type to hide her appreciation).

Her vision blurs or maybe sharpens, and the top of the workbench looks bizarre, like something out of a film; she’s caught on the strands of Blake’s hair that spill over it, curling threads of black, and she follows the trail back to the source. The sight of Blake between her thighs makes her elbows unlock and she nearly pitches forward, only just catching herself. And Yang’s never really thought about what an ideal orgasm might involve, but it has to go something like this: growing from a point somewhere around the time she’d first pressed her hips into Blake’s, lip trapped between her teeth, to now, on all fours, grinding down on Blake’s face. (Or maybe it’s just _Blake_ that’s the important part — but that’s not a thought Yang has the mental capacity to process right now, maybe not even to remember having.)

Blake doesn’t let up, not when the first or even the second shiver hits Yang, when her groans blend together with a slew of profanities and Blake’s name, and she rides it out, shaking, until it’s too much, and she has to roll off, collapsing awkwardly on the workbench, skewed diagonally across it, legs hanging off of the the edge. It’s uncomfortable, or _would_ be, if Yang was anything other than completely spent, swimming in bliss. When she regains some semblance of her control, enough to take in her bearings, Blake’s leaning over her, lips curling and shining.

“Told you,” she rasps.

(She’s unconcerned with the intimacy of it, apparently, of the way she’s still bare to Yang, the look in her eyes — soft, open, content — somehow more significant than her nakedness.)

“Yeah, well, you can tell me whatever you want if you keep this up.” Yang’s eyes close again. “See? I fuck you. You eat me out. Not complicated at all.”

Blake laughs, quiet but genuine, and it’s almost an easy thing to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) I have to give a shout out to the artists who have made ALL my dreams come true and have drawn stuff from this fic; [grimmfluence](https://grimmfluence.tumblr.com/post/183980043016/i-turned-every-card-into-yours-yang), [patcho418](http://patcho418.tumblr.com/post/183754757500/hey-fam-thecousinsdangereux-is-writing-an), and last but _certainly_ not least, [lowtideandhightea](http://lowtideandhightea.tumblr.com/post/183922079648/at-last-someone-has-written-something-worthy-of). They are all magnificent beings and y’all should click those links to check out the stuff that made my heart grow three sizes like the Grinch.  
> 2) Also, thanks to [aziminil](http://aziminil.tumblr.com) for her support when I got stuck at one point in this chapter.  
> 3) Sorry this got so long. I thought about cutting it, but that would have left out the last section and that felt mean.  
> 4) Thanks, as always, to everyone who has lent their encouragement and support to me for this fic. It really means the world!


	5. lose the tension

_Lose the tension_  
_Even though the world is mad and you feel out of control_  
_But you're the best thing_  
_When you let it all fly_  
_Bang your head and put your hands up in the air  
_ _Oh babe, I'll take you out tonight_

[MØ, _Nights With You_ ]

  
—  
  


Her childhood bedroom is a time capsule.

Medals hang from the walls (some slopestyle, but mostly half-pipe), pictures spanning over two decades fill up frames scattered across every available surface, and the closet — crammed full of clothing she no longer wears — still holds her old Letterman jacket, barely worn. The bed is small enough that she always ends up half out of it by the end of the night, and the comforter is old, worn, frayed, and gold (a gift from Ruby when Yang was fourteen and dreamed of standing on an Olympic podium).

There’s a spot — one just behind the door, where the knob has repeatedly hit the wall behind it, despite the bumper — where each layer of paint, applied one on top of the other, is clearly visible (blue first, then yellow, grey, the _brightest_ of oranges, an ugly beige, and finally the dark lilac it is now). It’s an excavation, each stratum telling a story of a younger Yang, each with her own style and choices and dreams and expectations. (The orange had been a mistake and lasted less than a week. She was sixteen, fresh off a disastrous call with Raven, and her feelings were loud and bright. She’d needed a room to match. At ten o’clock at night, she’d driven to Home Depot, burning beneath her skin, and came back with two gallons of _Calypso Coral_ , coating her walls with it throughout the night. Three days later, she’d hated it, but never could say why.)

All of it combined gives the room an unexpected weight, but it’s a comfort rather than a burden, a reminder of growth, one color after another. But trying to figure out how to tell Blake that she’d really, _really_ like to get her off again sometime soon, while surrounded by all of that?

Less than ideal.

The house is quiet, but only by design; Weiss had gotten Ruby (and Tai) out of the house with an oh-so-casual mention of a limited edition caramel corn hot chocolate at _Ritual_ ’s cafe, leaving Yang home alone, free to work on the paper snowflakes she’d promised would be ready by the 26th, in time for Ruby’s traditional morning surprise. She had pitched the idea to Weiss ages ago, but now that it’s time to implement it, she’s staring at the piles of paper she’s yet to fold, and wondering if a text saying ‘if I don’t taste you again soon, I’m going to die’ is something Blake would consider complicated.

It’s not really productive.

Worse, it’s atypical. Yang’s not used to considering just how to approach a relationship, no matter the nature of it. She’d done _simple_ more often than not, and done complicated a few times too. She knows the difference and how best to go about it — the way to flirt and fuck and move on when the time inevitably came. But now she’s staring at her phone and wondering if ‘not complicated’ means there’s a limit on the number of texts she’s allowed to send per day, if she could just _call_ Blake like she did before without any preparation whatsoever, or if she has to wait to be contacted first.

It’s fucking stupid, but Yang can’t help it. Because Blake tugs at something that Yang’s not sure she can define or explain, even to herself — a thread she hadn’t really realized existed — and all she knows is that she can’t mess it up.

She grabs a sheet of paper and folds it into something simple, using scissors to slice a random cut out that looks less tidy than she’d normally allow. But it’s something. It’s progress, even if it’s hardly on the front that’s currently occupying most of her attention at the moment.

Before she can think better of it, she grabs her phone and takes a selfie, making a stupid face — tongue sticking out — with her collection of paper snowflakes in the background. She sends it to Blake without a message, too antsy to contemplate composing something that would fall within the rules of engagement that, thus far, remained entirely unspoken.

Two hundred and thirty-seven snowflakes later and Blake hasn’t texted back.

She tries not to think about it.  
  


—  
  


The next morning is easier, and she almost wonders if she’d made something out of nothing the night before. She still hasn’t heard from Blake, but it’s the first day of Wintermas and Ruby is wearing a penguin onesie, Weiss has allowed reindeer antlers to be placed atop her head, and Yang is watching the both of them struggle through one of her very favorite holiday traditions, so everything else sort of slips into the background (a distant ache).

“You know, they sell those little one pound weights _everywhere_ ,” she muses aloud, lips pulled in a grin that doesn’t hold anything back. “You could start your training there. Or would even _that_ be too much for you?”

“Shut the fuck up, Yang,” Weiss growls, muscles (such as they are) in her arm straining.

“Wow. And people say _my_ language is bad. Dad, do the whole ‘my house, my rules’ thing. Weiss is like, your honorary daughter. You have chastising rights.”

Tai just laughs though, and nudges Yang with his elbow. “Do I? It never worked on _you_. Thank god your sister never needed it anyways, otherwise it would have set a terrible example.” He reaches out to ruffle Ruby’s hair; it’s unfair, really, since she can’t pull away, and both he and Yang laugh at the high pitch whine that results instead.

“I’m. Trying. To. Concentrate!”

“And we’re _one_ minute into what has to be the most pathetic stalemate in arm wrestling history,” Yang says, hand cupped in front of her like a microphone, voice pitched low. “Neither Weiss ‘Dumbbell? Never Heard of Her’ Schnee and Ruby ‘My Arm Fits Through A Chain Link Fence’’ Rose have made any progress whatsoever toward victory, wouldn’t you say, Tai?”

“Oh, _absolutely_ , Yang. This is truly a spectacle, but not in the way you’d hope. We’re in the first round of the 2018 Wintermas Arm Wrestling Championship, and you have to wonder, is there _any_ excitement to be had this year?”

“I hate you guys!” Ruby whines, and Weiss makes the _slightest_ bit of progress in pushing her arm towards the surface of the table.

“You also have to wonder if traditional tactics are even worth utilizing here. With no muscle mass to speak of, both these girls are — to use a technical term — noodle arms. Is there another strategy that either one could utilize effectively? Perhaps Schnee might make use of the ‘feminine wiles’ she purportedly used to acquire extra cheese sauce at _Speedie’s_ last week, despite all of us thinking she probably just paid the standard fifty cents for it.”

“I showed you the receipt!” Weiss grits. “And you _know_ that won’t work against Ruby, you buffoon.”

“It won’t work against anyone,” Yang returns, voice back to it’s normal tone as she folds one arm over the other, smug smile in place. “ _Classic_ useless lesbian.”

“I’m returning your present _tonight_.”

Yang scoffs, knowing exactly how empty the threat is, but — feeling her phone vibrate — slips a hand into her back pocket to pull it out, rather than call Weiss on it. And when she sees the name on the notification, she sort of forgets all about it anyways.

_‘Looks like you’re good with your hands in more ways than one_ ,’ the text reads.

Yang doesn’t even try to play it cool. One night and she’s already tired of it, sick of wallowing in uncertainty. Her thumbs fly across the onscreen keyboard.

_‘You’ll find out when you get back.’_

“Huh. That’s a smile I haven’t seen in a while.”

Yang looks up, startled, to find her dad grinning at her. They’re alike in a lot of ways, and that’s why she knows to be wary, especially when Weiss and Ruby glance over as well, despite being in the middle of what’s _meant_ to be a very serious feat of athleticism.

“What? It’s just — ”

“Blake,” Ruby and Weiss say, and then grin at one another, like the _menaces_ they are.

“You’re supposed to be _arm wrestling_ , losers. Against _each other_.” She shakes her head. “And yeah, it’s Blake. So what?”

“Blake is the new girl working on boards with you, right?” And _god_ , Yang hopes her fake casual is better than her dad’s. He might as well have a blinking billboard over his head announcing his intentions. “Seems like that name is popping up a lot these days.”

“Yeah, _well_ , she’s our new partner. So that makes sense.”

“Yes, that’s right. She’s our new partner.” Weiss agrees with her, and Yang’s immediately suspicious, waiting for the twist. It comes quickly. “I actually sent her contract over a couple nights ago, but I haven’t heard from her. Good to know she’s able to text _you,_ at least.”

“Oh, salty. I’m telling her you’re pissed.” The teasing is mostly to hide how stupidly pleased she is to hear that Blake is getting in touch with her first; Weiss, who narrows her eyes slightly, probably knows it.

Not that it stops Yang from texting Blake, exactly as promised.

“ _Also_ ,” she reads aloud as she types, “Weiss is going to kill you or something, because you didn’t respond to her fancy contract. And we already talked about how she’d be able to get away with murder, no problem, so you know you’re fucked.”

“Excuse me, you did _what_?”

Weiss’s indignation rises quickly into a shout of alarm as Ruby begins to (finally) gain some traction, forcing her arm back towards the table.

“Oh, and it looks like Weiss’s lapse in concentration has been _costly_ ,” Tai says, resuming his commentary, grin matching Yang’s. “We’re finally seeing some movement at the table and it all amounts to _disaster_ for Miss Schnee.”

She puts up a valiant fight, but it’s all for naught in the end; once Ruby has the upper hand, Weiss crumbles, and it’s only another few moments before victory results, the back of Weiss’s hand hitting the table, presumably with a loud smack, if not for Ruby’s ear-piercing shout of triumph drowning out all else.

“Re _demption_! You thought you could go into this without any preparation because you won last year, but you! Were! Wrong!” She leaps out of the chair, faster than Yang can track, and jumps atop it, fists lifting in the air like some kind of heavyweight champion.

“Won _third place_ , last year,” Yang corrects, but softly, mostly to Tai.

“Ah, let her have it.”

It’s only then that Yang glances down and notices the five texts from Blake. Her smile grows with each one, wide and unrestrained, but it doesn’t have anything on the tightness in her chest.

_Sorry_

_I might have forgotten to sort out my international data for the trip home_

_Guess I was distracted_

_It probably had something to do with those hands_

_And promises like that_

_I’d say sorry for the distraction_

_but I’m really really really not_

_plus_

_it’s basically a wintermas present_

_getting to see Weiss annoyed_

A soft nudge jolts her out of it, and her head lifts to find three pairs of eyes on her: two amused, one suspicious. The grin she favors them with might be sheepish, but she does her best to hide any trace of it, winking at Weiss in the most obnoxious way she can manage.

It doesn’t really work.

“What was that about useless lesbians, Yang?” she asks pointedly.

Yang sticks out her tongue; it’s not her best comeback.

But, then, she doesn’t have much room to talk, either. Not when Blake’s next texts come through and her heart gets going all over again.

_Well then_

_Merry Wintermas Yang_

_< 3_

If she had one of those stupid FitBits it’d probably sound off some kind of alarm, right about the time her eyes land on that little emoticon heart.  
  


—  
  


The morning of the 26th comes early, alarm going off at four. Weiss promised coffee before they’d gone to sleep and, sure enough, she has it ready when Yang trudges down the stairs, boxes of paper snowflakes stacked in her arms.

“Why do we do this to ourselves?” she grumbles, dropping the decorations on the table with enough force to make Weiss shoot her a glare (but not enough to keep her from handing Yang a warm mug, already prepared to her preference, judging from the lighter coloring).

“Because we love Ruby,” Weiss returns simply.

And _yeah_. That’s really all that needs to be said.

“You wanna take the second floor and the stairs? You’re a little better at being stealthy than I am. Just a little.”

“Understatement of the year,” Weiss scoffs, but presses a soft kiss to Yang’s cheek as she passes, grabbing a box with her free hand as she goes.  
  


—  
  


Ruby wakes to thousands of snowflakes hanging from the ceilings, a blizzard of carefully folded paper, highlighted by string after string of fairy lights. She should be used to surprises on this particular morning by now (Weiss and Yang manage something every year) but she still gasps when she steps out of her bedroom, eyes filling with tears that — when she lunges forward to wrap both women in a hug — almost feels like a transferrable sort of thing. And maybe it is, because Weiss definitely sniffs, just the once, and Ruby and Yang’s arms automatically tighten around her.

Later — much later — under the tree and surrounded by a sea of wrapping paper hastily ripped from boxes, Ruby pulls them both in for their customary selfie and Yang barely thinks about it before sending it to Blake.

_Next year_ , she adds underneath it, _you should join in_.  
  


—  
  


Blake gets back on the 2nd of January.

Yang knows this because she’d _casually_ let it slip in a text message that Yang took to be a hint about keeping her plans clear that night. She doesn’t offer to pick Blake up from the airport (because offering feels like a minefield, even if she would have done it and done it gladly), but does mention — just as casually — that Weiss would be at a 8:30 meeting that night and Ruby had promised their dad a father-daughter bonding dinner as well (a monthly event that Yang always enjoys when it’s her turn, but has never appreciated in quite the same way as she does now).

All of this means that on the 2nd of January at 7:57 P.M., Blake’s knocking on the door of their apartment, the sheets on her bed are _very_ recently changed, and Yang’s feeling pretty fucking good about just how satisfied Blake must have been with her performance before the holiday to be here, the very same night she’d returned to the country.

She’s feeling _less_ great about the fact that Blake arrives _just_ as Weiss is leaving, because the look Weiss gives her is pretty much the definition of suspicious, and even Blake’s easy-going smile — hiding any and all traces of the surprise she might be feeling — isn’t quite enough to get Weiss to walk out the door without any further questions.

“Blake! I didn’t realize you were back.” It would almost sound pleased, if not for the way Weiss’s eyes narrow towards the end of it, and flick back and forth between the two women on either side of her. The very sight of Blake knocks everything out of Yang’s mind aside from the mental image (and attached anticipation) of removing one layer of her clothing after the other — taking her _time_ now that she has more of it — and it’s a struggle to fit a smile onto her face that doesn’t show _all_ of that.

“Just this morning. I thought I would come over and say hello.” She frowns a little, eyes darting down to Weiss’s bag and the coat she’s already wearing, and Yang, despite knowing otherwise, is _deeply_ convinced by the performance. (She’d give a thumbs-up, if not for the fact that Weiss has shifted, back to the wall of their entryway, to keep them both in view.) “Guess I’m visiting at a bad time though. Are you heading out?”

“Yeah, Weiss is getting dinner with her _academic advisor_. Because apparently that’s a _thing_ people do even though they’re still on Winter Break. Or at least, that’s a thing the the _biggest losers_ do.”

It’s a purposeful jab, and it half works; Weiss rolls her eyes, stance relaxing, but she still doesn’t _leave_. (Yang _loves_ the woman, but _god_ , she’s never wanted her around _less_. And really, it’s in Weiss’s _own_ best interests that she leaves — for a lot of reasons — so the thought is _basically_ based in friendship.)

“Who you know is _everything_ in this industry. You should be thanking me.”

“Thank you, Weiss,” Yang returns, dutiful if not for her wide grin (and Blake’s soft snort). “You sacrifice so much for this family.”

“You _joke_ , but I _do_.” Both corners of her lips twitch, though, and Yang knows she’s got her, which is only confirmed when she leans in to give Blake a quick one-armed hug.

“Maybe Blake will be here when you’re back?” Yang offers, and then adds (rather _slyly_ , she thinks), “Depending on how long you’re going to be schmoozing.”

“I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.” She releases Blake and skirts around her, hand (finally) finding the knob and pulling the front door back open. The cold blows through the hallway and Blake moves further into the apartment, right alongside Yang, and Yang’s hand comes up automatically, resting on the small of her back, over her coat. (She would have thought the thickness of the material would keep it from being electric, but it doesn’t, so it is, and her eyes catch on Blake’s not a second after the contact occurs.)

“So I guess I’ll see you both later?” There’s something in her tone, and _whoops_ , when Yang glances back towards her, there’s something in her stare too: a question, just on the verge of an accusation.

“Definitely,” Blake returns, smile calm. “Have fun with the academic advising, Weiss.”

Weiss only hums by way of farewell, shutting the door firmly behind her, leaving Blake and Yang alone, close, and absolutely silent. Yang can think of a lot of things to say (and even more things to do), but she holds off, eyes flicking towards the door. It’s not like she thinks Weiss is the sort to stand outside of it, listening in, but, _well_ , it still feels safer to wait for the sound of her car to start up, just in case.

“I’m just — ” She nods at the closed door, as though the movement has _any_ meaning whatsoever, but Blake (somehow) seems to understand, eyes squinting with her smile.

“I know.”

It almost seems surreal, having Blake here, but in a way Yang finds difficult to conceptualize, even to herself. The woman in front of her now, slipping off her peacoat and hanging it on their rack (right alongside Yang’s: a worn, brown, military jacket with wool lining), is _obviously_ the same person Yang had pressed into a workbench and been _very_ much ready to worship for hours on end (had time allowed it). But she gets stuck somewhere between _that_ Blake, and the one Yang has been getting to know over the past month. The two images shouldn’t be so hard to collate, but as Blake turns back to her, stare wiped clean, and the faint purr of a car engine hits her ears, it occurs to Yang that she’s compartmentalizing all of this more than she should be.

“So,” Blake says.

“So,” Yang echoes.

It’s stupid, because she _likes_ Blake (both Blakes, such as they are) and there’s never been any awkwardness there, not even in situations where there should have been. She can _talk_ to this woman, she knows, and she can flirt with her and even kiss her too, because that’s the whole _point_ of an arrangement like this: to make things easier and fun, and not laden down by anything heavy. And Yang is _good_ at that — at this — so there really isn’t any reason for hesitation. Nothing about this is any different. (It shouldn’t be.)

So she smiles — grins even — and Blake returns it, dropping her shoulders and a little bit of her tension when Yang steps closer, arms wrapping around her hips.

“Guess I’m not out of your system yet, huh?”

Blake’s eyes glint. “You could be. I could be here to talk.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

It’s slower this time, the way Blake kisses her, though her hands slip under Yang’s t-shirt — palms fitting against her hip bones and fingers curling towards her back — almost immediately. It’s not soft, not really, and the underlying need still presses against their actions with a heavy beat, but the crescendo can stretch out longer this time, filling up pages and pages, and that knowledge keeps some of the mania out, so present in the frantic nature of their first time. There are merits to both approaches, Yang thinks, but there’s something to be said for being able to take their time, to slide her hand along the side of Blake’s neck, thumb brushing against the sharp cut of her jaw, feeling the way her breath hitches.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about tasting you since you left,” she admits, voice little more than a rasp as she pulls back, lips brushing over the corner of Blake’s lips, her chin, her cheek. “God. I can’t believe I let you leave after one round.”

“I had a plane to catch.”

It doesn’t come out as Blake clearly hopes it will.

(It’s breathless already. Full of things three layers deep.)

_Good._

“You should have missed it. Car problems. Some other fucking excuse. It would have been worth it.”

“Mmm. You sure?”

Blake shifts onto her toes and it presses closer, it lets her catch Yang’s lips again, lets her lick into her mouth. Yang’s grip on her neck tightens involuntarily — a soft squeeze — and Blake makes a noise that sends her reeling with the possibilities.

“Yeah. And that whole one-round bullshit? Not gonna happen again.”

She spins them around, pushing Blake toward her bedroom, and the movement separates them enough (briefly) for her to catch the flush on Blake’s cheeks.

“Promise?”

Yang doesn’t bother responding with words.  
  


—  
  


“Listen, all I’m saying is — ” Yang lets out a slow breath and then lifts her torso again, head nearly hitting her knees. “You can’t change the rules again! We said we’d take the tree down by _mid_ -January.”

Viewed upside down, Weiss’s frown turns into a smile, and Yang considers sharing this _brilliant_ thought, but thinks better of it when Weiss’s hands come up to rest on her hips. It’s one of her _power poses_ , and all of _those_ mean that she’s being _serious._ Yang had been leveled with a different variation (the crossed arms model) this morning, only four hours after she’d snuck back into their apartment and fifteen minutes _before_ she had promised Weiss she’d be ready to leave for the gym.

Needless to say, Yang had _not_ been nearly ready (or awake) at that time. Hence the power pose as Weiss watched her scramble to throw on her workout attire and shove a piece of toast in her mouth. (There’d been a moment — just a moment — when Yang had considered telling Weiss she _really_ didn’t need to go to the gym with all the cardio she’d been getting with Blake, but then she’d remembered how much she enjoyed living and being alive. Besides, sex didn’t help much with building muscles, outside of Blake’s fondness for being lifted and slammed into various surfaces and pieces of furniture. So there was that.)

“Today is the 13th. That _firmly_ falls into the middle of January.”

Yang grunts with the next inverted sit-up, well into her second set by now, and starting to feel it, abs aching with each crunch. “I don’t think you got that in writing.”

“In writi — “ Weiss sputters. “ _I’m_ the one always telling you to get things in writing! You can’t use that trick on _me_! I taught you that!”

“I thought you’d be proud.” Her tank top slips, hem folding over itself and falling into face, and Yang removes a hand from behind her head to tuck it back into place. “Aren’t I supposed to be _using_ what you’ve taught me?”

Weiss’s hands drop to her sides as she lets out a huff. “Fine. You have until the _15th_.”

“The 16th _and_ we get to have a dramatic bonfire funeral for Jude.” She lifts and drops her torso once more, and when she returns to the start of the rep, she finds Weiss’s expression to be far less peeved than what she would have expected. In fact, it’s downright tender.

“We really shouldn’t let her name the Christmas tree,” she murmurs. “She gets so attached.”

“Which is why we need a _proper_ bonfire. For _Ruby’s_ benefit.”

“Fine.” Weiss rolls her eyes. “Take it down on Wednesday and we can do the ‘funeral’ on Friday.”

“Yes!” Yang throws her arms up. Or, _down_ , rather. (Inverted workouts made directions confusing.) “Belated New Years Party at our place! Because Nora and Ren will be back! You have such _awesome_ ideas, Weiss!”

Weiss shakes her head, looking pleased. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to invite _everyone_ , then?”

“I mean, not everyone. But yeah, the cool people.” Yang’s shirt drops back down into her face (it’s new — a gift from her dad — as is the knowledge that sweat makes the moisture-wicking material _difficult_ in an inverted position) and she growls in annoyance, tucking it under her chin. “Hang on. Come over here and help me get this thing off.”

“Your _shirt_?” Weiss’s voice is higher than it should be; she only takes a single step closer before stopping, folding her arms, one over the other.

“Um, _yeah_. It’s falling in my face, in case you hadn’t noticed? And the neckline is kind of tight so it’s hard to get off. Why are you looking like — ” She pauses, taking in Weiss’s pinched expression. “I have a sports bra on underneath, you loser! God, _contain_ yourself. I know I’m like, _godly_ hot but, seriously, I thought we were past you _lusting_ over me and my incredible body and face and everything.”

_That’s_ certainly enough to spur Weiss into action; she stomps over and tugs the tank top off, none-too-gently, catching Yang’s hair — tied in a ponytail, but still ever-wild — in the process.

“Ouch! What the hell, Weiss? Careful!” She does another sit-up, shaking out her hair in the process. “These locks are _precious_ , you know.”

Weiss’s hands are back on her hips and _shit_ , the frown is back in place too. “I just _thought_ you would be less… like _this_ now.”

“What?” Yang drops her hands and twists her neck, as though viewing Weiss right-side-up would clear up some of her confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Aren’t you worried about — oh, I don’t know — _jealousy_? Or, worse, hurting _someone_ ’s feelings?”

If Weiss’s tone wasn’t so serious, her look so _pointed_ , Yang would have laughed right in her face. As it is, she looks around the gym, fairly empty at this time in the morning, and then back at Weiss.

“What, like Nora’s? She’s not here. And you know that’s not — Wait, are you hitting on me?”

“ _What_?”

(The absolute _horror_ on Weiss’s face is _maybe_ a little hurtful. Yang pushes through it, for the good of the joke.)

“Like, checking in to make sure I’m not seeing someone? I’ve always joked about you being obsessed with me, but oh my god. Do we have to have a _talk_?”

“I’m _not_ — ”

Yang grins, unlocking her ankles from the bar so she can swing her torso a little, back and forth.

“I mean, I guess if you _really_ want to, this is your best chance. Remember when Ruby made us see that Spider-Man movie? I’ve always thought the upside down kiss thing could be hot.” She stretches out an arm, snagging the hem of Weiss’s shirt. “Come here.”

She probably deserves it, when Weiss squirts a water bottle directly in her face, but it still makes her sputter and then cough, once her laughter gets the better of her.

“Ugh, _Yang_! You — you _absolute buffoon!_ I’m talking about _Blake_.”

Yang nearly falls off the bar.

The abrupt change in her expression seems to please Weiss, who tosses her hair back, lobs her water bottle on top of her jacket (folded up carefully nearby), and steps to the side as Yang rights herself and drops back down to the floor. She reaches for a towel and wipes some of the sweat (and water) from her face, more as a stalling tactic than anything else. But afterwards, Weiss is still looking at her expectantly and Yang is no closer to figuring out how to get out of this conversation unscathed.

Boldly declaring ignorance is probably a good place to start.

“What are you talking about?”

Or… not, because Weiss just _sighs_ and puts her hands back on her hips.

“Honestly, Yang, how stupid do you think I _am_?” Yang opens her mouth, retort ready, but is pretty much immediately cut off. “Don’t even _think_ about answering that. I _saw_ you two. When she got back from break? God, I thought you were going to jump her right in front of me. It was _disgusting_. I don’t know _when_ it happened, but I know it _happened_.”

“Rude,” Yang mumbles. “But okay, _fine_. But that doesn’t — ” She shakes her head. “It’s just sex. What does that have to do with Blake being jealous?”

Weiss stares at her.

Blinks once.

“Are you fucking serious?”

_Oof._ Ice cold tone combined with a _solid_ swear. _Never_ a good sign, when it came to Weiss. One more wrong move and Yang was likely to get a dumbbell to the face.

“I mean… it’s just that we’re not really _dating,_ so jealousy isn’t really a factor,” she begins, but continues in a rush when Weiss’s jaw clenches. “Because that’s what Blake _wants,_ Weiss! I’m following her _lead_!”

“Yang,” Weiss says calmly. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Jesus _Christ_. _She’s_ the one who walked into the workshop before the holidays and literally _demanded_ I — ”

“I’m going to _kill_ you!” she says again, _much_ less calmly. “Oh my _god_ , I’m going to _murder you_. You’re such a _slut_ , Yang! _A gay slut_!”

“ — Kiss her!” Yang finishes, throwing up her hands in defense. “I was going to say ‘kiss her’.” She pauses, and _oh, what the hell_ , living dangerously has always been her thing. “I mean, admittedly, like, five minutes later she did _also_ pretty much demand that I fu— ”

Weiss actually stomps her foot. “ _No_! Finish that sentence, Yang Xiao Long, and I _swear_ they will never find your body.”

It only occurs to Yang _then_ that Weiss might _actually_ be mad, and not just pulling a normal _Weiss_. It makes her take a step forward and place a careful hand on her shoulder. Weiss doesn’t jerk away, which is as promising a sign as any, but she also glares at a point somewhere around Yang’s collarbone rather than meet her gaze.

“Hey. Are you _really_ pissed? I’m not — look, I know you said it maybe wasn’t a good idea, but like, you’ve _seen_ us, right? I’m _seriously_ not trying to be a dick here, but this was kind of… a long time coming.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Weiss grumbles, finally looking up at her. “I know you two have been… _lusting_ after each other from the start. But _god_ , Yang, she’s our _partner_ now! Our business partner! There are a million pretty girls in Park City. Couldn’t you have blown off some steam with one of them?”

“It’s not like that.” And it’s _not_. Not even a little.

But apparently Weiss _knows_ , because the look she gives Yang is the same one she’d worn when she was on the debate team in high school and knew she was about to win a point.

“‘It’s not like that’? Or it’s ‘ _just_ sex’?” She tsks. “Which one is it, Yang? Because I’m not really feeling _inspired_ with how well you’ve thought this through.”

“It’s just…” Yang trails off and drops her hand. “It’s going to be _fine_ , Weiss. You don’t have to worry about the business. This isn’t my first friends with benefits. You _know_ I’m still friends with Nora! We hang out all the time! And the thing with Nebula! Or with — ”

“Really? You think _now_ is the time to start listing all your torrid affairs to me? _Really_ , Yang?”

Yang groans, throwing her head back. “I’m just _saying_. I know what I’m doing! And you can trust me.”

It’s hardly a creative or unfamiliar tactic, but it works; Weiss sighs and shakes her head once, but the ire drains from her face.

“I do trust you. I trust you and Ruby more than anyone else in the world. You know that.” It’s Weiss’s turn to step in, hand finding Yang’s elbow, touch gentle. “But you also know I worry about you. You always act like you’re impervious to getting your heart broken, but that’s just because you never let anyone all the way in. And I’ve _seen_ you with Blake and — Yang if you think there aren’t any feelings involved in this, you’re _fooling_ yourself.”

Yang’s discomfort shows in the shift of her hips, weight passing from one foot to the other, but Weiss doesn’t let up, her pale eyes insistent and intent.

“Look, it’s like — okay, I know I _like_ Blake more than some of the other girls I’ve been with. But that’s because I like hanging out with her. Even when it’s the four of us. I think she fits into the group. I’ve said that like, a million times. But I also like, well, you know.”

She’s vague for Weiss’s benefit, but only gets an eye roll for her trouble. “You enjoy hanging out with her _and_ having sex with her. _Wow_ , I wonder if people who are in actual, committed relationships feel that way about their partner. It’s almost like that’s why people _date_.”

“Okay, so you’re annoyed that I’m sleeping with Blake, but you want me to ask her out?” Yang’s lips curl, more amused than unkind, before she throws Weiss’s earlier words back at her. “Which one is it, Weiss?”

“I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from! Because I can’t see why you think friends with benefits — or whatever you’re doing — is the only choice here.”

“Really? You can’t think of a _single_ reason why it might be a valid option?”

She doesn’t mean for it to be the low blow that Weiss clearly takes it as, withdrawing with a jerk of her hand, removed from the spray of a shower that’s just turned scalding.

“Weiss, I didn’t — ”

To her surprise, Weiss just sighs. Somehow, it’s worse than if she’d just stormed off.

“Yes, Yang, being deeply in the closet and not wanting to admit to yourself that you’re a huge disappointment to your family in _yet another_ way _is_ a reason someone might want to keep a relationship _casual_. Thank you for reminding me.”

“Fuck, Weiss. I’m — I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry.” She nudges Weiss’s hand with a tap of her fingers, not taking it, but wanting to offer _some_ kind of contact.

“It’s _fine_.” She sighs again and grasps Yang’s hand, squeezing it briefly before letting it go. “It was a long time ago. I shouldn’t still be bothered by it. And _this_ shouldn’t remind me of what happened with — with Pyrrha because they’re totally different situations, but Yang…” She looks up, emotions unconcealed in a way she only ever lets Yang or Ruby see. “Please be careful. I know what it’s like to make the wrong choice when it comes to caring about someone more than you’re letting on.”

_That’s not what this is_ , Yang wants to say, but holds back, unwilling to risk hurting Weiss any further by calling her on the projection.

(But it’s definitely not.)

And she could totally argue the point with _great_ eloquence if it was worth the energy or effort. Or if she weren’t more concerned with the lingering sadness in the slight downturn of Weiss’s lips. It’s the sort of expression that makes Yang want to say anything to make Weiss better, but thankfully, this time, all she has to do is not get lost in the details (the pointless little moments of overthinking) and focus on what’s _totally_ the truth.

“Me and Blake are on the same page. We’ve even talked about it — ” _Sort of,_ she adds, but only internally. “ — so you don’t have any reason to worry. I promise. Alright?”

Weiss nods once, movements sharp. “Alright.”

“And we’re good, right?” She smiles, bumping the tip of her sneaker into Weiss’s. “Wanna hug it out?”

“Absolutely not,” Weiss sniffs, looking Yang up and down. “You’re covered in sweat. It’s making your skin _shine_. It’s disgusting.”

“And yet the whole time we’ve been talking, that girl on the erg with the pink streaks in her hair has been eyeing the _hell_ out of me, so…” She flexes one arm and winks.

“I hate you so much,” Weiss says flatly, then spins around and strides off towards the rows of heavy weights. Yang has to jog to keep up, but once she does she throws an arm around her shoulder, feeling inordinately chipper at having things back on track and determined to _keep_ them that way.

“I’ll spot you. You _really_ have to work on your deadlift.”

(And if Yang adds another ten pounds to her bar when it’s her turn to lift, it doesn’t have _anything_ to do with keeping her thoughts from wandering any further.

She just likes a challenge.)  
  


—  
  


The main lodge at Deer Valley is busy, and that works to Yang’s advantage.

It’s not like she _actually_ thinks that the staff is on high alert, or whatever, but there’s something _exciting_ about strolling around — tugging the hood of her jacket up over her hair — somewhere she’s been banned from entering, modern day wanted poster in place and all. But really, as she pushes past skiers bustling about with their trays of food and armfuls of equipment, there’s only one Deer Valley staff member she’s interested in catching by surprise, and _she’s_ currently trying to disentangle a small girl with pigtails from one of her legs.

“Sweetheart, you’ll see Blake _next_ week,” an older woman is saying, smile tight and apologetic as she glances frantically between Blake and the young girl. “On Monday! That’s only five days!”

“It’s too _long_ ,” the kid wails, and honestly? Yang can kind of relate.

Blake manages to separate them, only to squat down next to the girl and murmur a few words that Yang can’t pick out from her position, peeking around one of the (admittedly gorgeous) wooden beams that supports the roof of the lodge. Blake’s expression is as tender as Yang’s ever seen it, and Yang feels that tug once again at the sight. After the girl has thrown her arms around Blake for one last tight squeeze, she takes her mom’s hand and departs with no more than a mournful glance. Blake’s little wave as they walk off is _cute_ , but not quite as cute as the little laugh she lets out, for no one other than herself, as she turns away and heads out of the main lobby. Yang follows rather than calling out; it’s less about her undercover agent fantasy and more to do with making sure Blake doesn’t get in trouble for associating with a known rabble rouser (Weiss’s term, not hers), which is why, as soon as Blake turns a few corners and ends up in the middle of an abandoned corridor, Yang is quick to reach out and snag her wrist, tugging her to a stop before she’s able to move back into a busier area.

Or, that’s what she _tries_ to do.

Instead, as soon as her fingers brush against Blake’s skin, _something_ happens — nearly too quickly for Yang to even process — that has her yelping, the result of her fingers being twisted back in a _very_ unpleasant way. It only lasts a moment — the split second it takes for Blake to recognize and release her — but the expression in Blake’s eyes ( _intense_ and _ready_ to fuck someone _up_ ) as she turns to face her sticks with Yang long after the sting in her hand fades.

It’s… kind of _really_ hot.

“Yang! I’m so — ”

“Holy _shit_! What the fuck was _that_?”

It takes Blake another beat to realize that Yang is _grinning_ , but when she does, her stance relaxes, closing the distance between them again, this time with a lot less murderous intent.

“Sorry,” she finishes, though her tone is far more amused than it’d been when she started out. “I felt someone following me and with the hood, I didn’t — ” She tugs it off, careful not to catch any of the wayward strands of Yang’s hair. “Anyways, I thought you were waiting in the car.”

“Well, I was. But then I got bored.” Yang shrugs, and shakes out her hair, smile unfaltering. “Besides, obviously it was the right call, because now I know you’re a fucking _ninja_ or something! _Jesus_. You nearly snapped my fingers off!”

“That’s what you get for sneaking up on people,” Blake murmurs, but — after a quick glance down the hallway — takes Yang’s hand between both of her own, thumb stroking along the ridge of her knuckles.

Yang doesn’t bother hiding how much she appreciates the ministrations, eyebrows lifting up and down. “I’m just saying. Me losing my fingers would’ve been bad for _both_ of us. I make good use of these.”

“Oh? Do you?”

“As if you don’t _know_.”

A loud laugh echoes around the corner, and Blake drops her hand, even when no one comes into view; Yang’s disappointment is headed off by Blake’s sharp nod towards the _Staff_ _Only_ door she’d clearly been heading towards earlier, and Yang follows her, chest hitting her back when Blake halts in the doorway, presumably checking to make sure the room is clear.

“Blake Belladonna,” Yang whispers, lips brushing directly against the shell of her ear. “Are you breaking Deer Valley _rules_ by bringing me in here? And if so, how likely are you to break _other_ rules involving you, me, the D.V. parking lot, and the backseat of my car?”

“So romantic.” Blake doesn’t see a need to whisper; she also reaches back and pulls Yang all the way into the room, so apparently there’s no longer reason to be particularly sneaky, at least for now. It feels like something worth celebrating, so Yang _does_ , spinning Blake around and backing her up against the nearest locker, one of many lining each side of the room.

“I can be romantic,” she breathes.

Blake hums, wrists crossing behind Yang’s neck, almost lazily. “ _Is_ it romantic to be turned on by someone nearly breaking your fingers?”

“Eh, it can be our version of it. And don’t worry, babe; next time, I’ll return the favor by putting you in a choke hold. I know that’s _your_ thing.”

_Finally_ , she gets a flush (and a soft laugh), but it’s hardly enough to get Blake to back down (which — thank _god,_ honestly).

“Promises, promises,” she purrs, and damn if that doesn’t get Yang blushing too.

She kisses Blake to hide it, or — more accurately — she kisses Blake because if she doesn’t, she’ll probably die, torn apart like in that viral video with the watermelon, one too many rubber bands squeezing it tight and ripping through the rind. Maybe that means she’s addicted to the feeling of Blake’s lips on hers, but it’s hard to care in the middle of such a good fix, Blake’s mouth opening so willingly, Yang’s lip sliding between her teeth and getting a sharp nip.

“The lockers,” Yang mumbles, pulling back just enough to places her mouth to Blake’s neck. “Are really taking me back to high school.”

Blake’s laugh is breathless, and it makes Yang’s lips turn upwards, curling against the skin at her throat. “Were you doing _this_ in the halls of your high school?”

“Mmm, yeah. I drove a motorcycle and wore a leather jacket too.” She bites, hard enough to make a point. “Bad girl of Park City High.”

“Oh, how _edgy_.” Her fingers thread into Yang’s hair and tug a little; it’s teasing more than purposeful, and Yang knows she’s being made fun of even before she lifts her head back up and finds Blake’s crooked smile.

“What? Nerd like you too busy with your books to get in trouble?”

“I did like to read,” Blake agrees, but it’s with a glint in her eyes that knocks all the air out of Yang’s lungs. “I was also really into less-than-peaceful protesting. And weed.”

Yang _laughs_ , and hooks her thumbs under Blake’s green Deer Valley jacket. “Shit. Okay, well now I’ve _got_ to invite you to our bonfire this Friday. If we do it without a cool girl like you, it’s doomed to be a failure.”

“I suppose I could make an appearance.” The resulting smile shows off a flash of teeth. “If you promise to make it up to me.”

Her hands creep a little higher. “Baby, I’ll do that in _advance_. Right here, right now.”

“Right _here_?”

“I guess we could go — ” Yang licks her lips, impatient enough that there’s a whine to her voice when she continues. “The car?”

Hands dropping to Yang’s shoulders, Blake pushes her away without any real force, eyes roaming around the empty locker room until they catch on an unassuming door tucked away in the corner.

She grins, and jerks her head towards it.

“ _Or_ — ” she says, and Yang nods rapidly.

Blake’s still wearing her fucking _ski boots_ when she pulls Yang into the small equipment closet, but Yang shoves down her pants, thermal layer, and underwear well enough, even with them on, and she doesn’t hear any complaints about footwear discomfort as she drops to her knees and presses her mouth to the inside of Blake’s thigh.

“What was it?” Blake pants, afterwards, fingers tangled in Yang’s hair, leg dangling over her shoulder. “Deer _fucking_ Valley?”

Yang laughs so hard, they almost get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. TODAY IS A GOOD DAY. CONGRATS COCO ADEL. CONGRATS US. CONGRATS CRWBY.
> 
> 2\. Jude, I hope being a tree is better than being a bapy. 
> 
> 3\. “You’re a slut. You’re a gay slut!” is from D.E.B.S, the most iconic movie of all time.
> 
> 4\. As always, thanks for the love <3 
> 
> 5\. (Clam fam PLEASE interact.)


	6. leave me wanting more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a bit higher into the M category in this one, I would say, so fair warning. Also, there is a fairly _slight_ use of restraints.

_Please check your clothing at the door_  
_And who you're supposed to be  
_ _You always leave me wanting more_

[WALK THE MOON, _Shiver Shiver_ ]

 

—

 

“We are gathered here today to celebrate _a life_.”

There’s never been a second in her life when Yang hadn’t fully believed her sister was extraordinary, so the fact that she’s here, now, presiding over a bonfire funeral for their _Christmas tree_ in front of a crowd of fifty-some drunk idiots in their 20s, feels just about in-line with everything she’s always known. That doesn’t make it any less impressive, of course, and as she leans against their soon-to-be-firewood, hand covered in sap from holding it upright, she knows there’s only pride and fondness in her expression.

“And to remember a sacrifice,” Ruby continues, voice dipping low, head bowing down. “By the very nature of her purpose, Jude’s life was cut short. She was tall and sturdy — held every single one of our ornaments with _true_ _aplomb_ — but she was only seven years old.” Ruby pauses, then continues in a rush. “Probably. Seven to ten. Or maybe up to fifteen. Google is only so specific. But still! _Irregardless_! She was _very brave_ to live a life that brought joy to others — to _us_ — even when the cost, for her, was so great.”

Yang feels her before she hears or sees her. It’s a stupid thing to think — all kinds of wistful — but it’s true; when Blake’s suddenly _there_ , offering commentary, she isn’t surprised at all, despite not having seen her enter the backyard, let alone push her way through the crowd to come to rest at Yang’s side.

“We _are_ talking about a _Christmas_ tree, right?”

“We’re talking about _Jude_ , the Christmas tree,” Yang corrects. Her lips curl, though she tries to fight it, tries to keep her eyes trained on Ruby (who’s now going into just how _green_ their tree had been, how _fresh_ and full of _vitality_ ). “Don’t dishonor the dead. It’s beneath you.”

“And what are my chances of sneaking you out of here to get _you_ beneath me?” she asks, voice soft, even if it seems to ring loud in Yang’s ears.

“Unfortunately slim.” Yang shivers, just a little; a gust of wind blows through around the same time, so she could almost pass it off as the cause (true to form, she’s only wearing a down vest, sleeves of the flannel underneath rolled up past her forearms), but it’s probably a worthless venture, given Blake’s knowing smile, which she catches just out of the corner of her eye. “I’m like, the pallbearer.”

“Aren’t you just going to throw it into the barrel? I’m failing to see the significance of the ceremony.”

Yang can barely hide her snort; Ruby’s still in the thick of it and the group crowded around the already-roaring fire is _quiet_ , some of them raising their cups into the air, really getting into it. (One moron in the back is waving a lighter back and forth.)

“Maybe if you would stop undressing me with your _eyes_ , Belladonna, you _would_. Christ, you’re shameless.” She risks a glance over, and does a little fantasizing of her own, even if it’s of a different sort. Blake’s wearing her purple beanie — wisps of bangs flipping out from under where it’s tugged down on her forehead — and a black peacoat with the collar flipped up and a checkered scarf underneath. Yang wants to wrap the fabric around her fingers and tug Blake close with one hand, to kiss her with the sound of the bonfire popping in the background, flyaway embers landing harmlessly in her hair, glowing bright against the black, if only for a breath.

“As though you don’t like it,” Blake murmurs, but falls silent when Ruby turns to them, good-humored and unsuspicious, something other than the fire lighting up her silver eyes. Blake’s smile at the sight of it — adoring in a way that’s startlingly similar to Yang’s — is enough to flip something in her heart, to pry open a valve and send too much of _everything_ flooding in.

“And so, tonight, we say goodbye, _not_ to a simple tree, but to _Jude_ , who showed us what it means to feel the spirit of the season and _true_ jubilation in our hearts.”

Even as distracted as she’d been (and still is), Yang’s willing to believe that Ruby really _had_ built up to that strong of a finish, and the cheers of their guests seem to echo that, at the very least (even if that might have _something_ to do with the several kegs set up on their back porch). Ruby raises a fist in the air, a clear signal, and Blake laughs (soft but audible) when Yang steps away to lift the tree overhead, showing it off to the crowd before plunging it into the fire barrel, a resulting cacophony of crackling wood, popping pine needles, and boiling sap hitting the air.

The crowd ripples with the action, attention splintering as soon as Ruby steps away from her imagined pulpit, and the cheers die down. Yang turns to Blake and finds her eyes already on her, watching with a smile that only _just_ curls; she wants to be the reason it stretches further, and darts a hand out to snag the beanie off her head, tugging it down over her own hair, sticking out her tongue when Blake’s lunge to steal it back comes up empty.

“I look good in purple,” Yang says innocently. “It brings out my eyes.”

“You _do_ need all the help you can get.” And, _yeah_ , there’s that grin — the wide, unguarded one Yang’s only ever seen Blake give _her_ — right when she looks back up. “I don’t know if anyone has ever been honest with you, Yang, but you’re just _not_ that good looking.”

“Wow. Borrow a girl’s hat and she goes right for the heart. You’re cutting me deep, Blake.”

“Mm, yeah. It’s just that the whole long blonde hair, bright eyes, sharp jawline, big muscles thing doesn’t work for me at all. Sorry to have to break it to you, but you’re pretty terrible face-wise.” Blake links a finger through one of the front belt loops of Yang’s jeans and tugs once; her voice dips, smile fades into something softer (dangerously earnest, or maybe that’s just how it seems to Yang). “It’s almost hard to look at you sometimes.”

“Yeah, well, the feeling’s mutual,” Yang murmurs, quieter than she should be. She forges ahead with a quip to make up for it. “We should probably both stare straight ahead for the rest of the night, stand shoulder-to-shoulder.”

She demonstrates, shoulder hitting Blake’s, getting a soft laugh out of her (and her own now-standard resulting flush of pleasure and accomplishment at the sound), but when she actually looks away (breaks their connecting gaze with a jerk — mitigating unpleasantness with speed — like ripping off a band-aid) she’s so startled by the sight across the bonfire that she forgets to continue the ploy.

“Oh my god.”

Blake turns to her, a question on her lips. Even in her surprise, she tracks the motion in her peripheral, though her eyes remain fixed on the two figures on the other side of the yard. Her hand takes Blake’s without much (enough) thought, tugging her around the barrel, pulling her through the crowd, and Blake doesn’t resist, doesn’t even verbalize her curiosity. She must know Yang won’t make her wait, and she’s right, because as soon as they have a better view, peeking around the side of the elevated back porch, Yang explains.

“That’s _Pyrrha._ ”

It’s a surprise for a reason. They’d invited a ton of people — friends, and friends of friends, and coworkers — and Pyrrha had been one of them, but no one had really expected her to follow through, given she lived 600 miles away, give or take. It seemed a long way to go for a bonfire, but Yang isn’t about to complain; she’s _missed_ Pyrrha, and, honestly, she’d already be charging over to tackle the woman in a hug if she wasn’t currently talking to someone that had probably missed her a whole lot more.

“Weiss’s old ski partner?”

It’s an easy way to classify it, accurate if not for everything it left out. And watching them now, Yang can see all of pieces missing from that title. It’s in the way Weiss tilts her whole body into Pyrrha — not touching, _carefully_ not touching — but with an obvious lean, a magnet fighting the pull of its pole (anything but unaffected) clearly straining against the force of the field. It’s in the tilt of Pyrrha’s head too; Yang’s pretty sure there isn’t a kinder person on the planet, so it’s not atypical for Pyrrha to give a conversation the whole of her attention, but it’s different with Weiss (it’s always been different with Weiss), like she’s tracking the waves Weiss’s words make in the air in front of her, taking note of the different vibrations in a carefully detailed spreadsheet. The last time Weiss spoke to Pyrrha in person (alone, without interruption) had been years ago, and it had been meant to give closure, but Yang doesn’t see any of that now, just the cracks that Weiss has never been very good at hiding (a shitty spackling job on a hole that should’ve gotten a patch).

“Yeah. She moved out to California a few years ago. We — uh — weren’t expecting her here.”

There’s an odd silence, piercing through Yang’s concern for her best friend, and when she glances over at Blake, she’s startled by the look she finds on the woman’s face: sharp and almst _annoyed_ as she looks on at the scene, lips twisting at the corners in something that could easily be called displease. In fact, it looks an awful lot like _jealousy_ , and Yang’s stomach dips and curls, bad enough that she’s sure — for a long second — that she might be sick. It’s an ugly feeling and a bad sign, and she does her best to keep all of it out of her tone when she responds.

“Wait, are you — Blake, are you into Weiss?”

Blake’s shock is so immediate and so apparent that Yang feels a tangible rush of relief, even before the verbal response.

“What? No! Why would you — ” Blake blinks, scrambling for the connection, before her expression clears, and she turns back to Weiss and Pyrrha. “ _Oh_. They dated.”

“It’s… complicated.” But it isn’t, not really. It’s just a sad story that isn’t Yang’s to tell. “Weiss doesn’t talk about it much, I guess.”

“No,” Blake confirms, but doesn’t ask for anything more, only continues to watch.

“There’s a lot of history to explain, I guess. But Pyrrha’s seeing someone. They’ve been dating for a couple years. And she and Weiss would _never_ — “ Yang shakes her head; it’s too ridiculous of a concept to fully verbalize. “They wouldn’t. So whatever it was, it isn’t that now.”

Weiss folds one hand over the other behind her back. It’s an old habit that Yang hasn’t seen in a while, a sign of discomfort, and she’s about to stride over, drag Blake along with a hasty explanation, but then _Ruby’s_ there, latching onto Pyrrha with enough force to send her stumbling back, and Yang lets out a soft sigh of relief (even from a distance, she’s pretty sure Weiss does as well).

“And it’s not like Weiss has been _pining away_ , or whatever,” Yang continues. “I just think it’s like — I dunno — she wonders what could have been. Every once in a while.”

“For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been’,” Blake murmurs, and Yang’s gut curls in on itself, not so much at the words, but how much Blake seems to mean them.

“Nerd,” she replies, because she knows it’ll get a smile (and it does, though it’s smaller than she’d like). “I don’t know what that’s from, but I know it’s something pretentious.”

“Just a poem.” Yang makes a face at that, and Blake’s smile grows, releasing a laugh from behind her slanting lips. “Don’t give me that look.”

“You’re one to talk about _looks_. What was that one at Pyrrha just now? I thought you about ready to stomp over and declare your undying love for _Weiss_.” Yang shudders. “I’m traumatized just thinking about it. On _your_ behalf, too. That would be a disaster.”

Blake ducks her head; the lack of a beanie and the way she’s tucked her hair means that Yang can see when the top of her ear darkens with a flush.

“Poor Weiss. I’m sure she would make a very good girlfriend. It’s just she’s...” Blake gestures vaguely, one palm twisting upwards.

Yang laughs loudly, nearly a cackle. “A total pillow princess?”

“That’s _not_ what I was going to say.”

“It’s what you _meant_.” Yang’s laugh continues, hard enough that she puts a hand on her stomach; Blake shoves her shoulder, not particularly hard, though Yang takes several stumbling steps back for emphasis. “I’m telling her you said that.”

“ _You_ said that. And that doesn’t have _anything_ to do with _anything_. It’s just that — well — Weiss is _my_ ski partner now. There was just a moment of… professional jealousy.”

“Professional jealousy,” Yang repeats, smile still stretching wide, even as the laughter dies off. “That’s fucking _cute_ , you nerd. But you know you don’t have anything to worry about. You’re stuck with her. And me and Ruby too. I mean, Weiss said you signed her contract; that thing was forged in blood, you know.”

“You really know how to make a business partnership sound — ”

“ _Yang! Xiao! Long!_ ”

The shout comes from across the yard or, it _starts_ there, at least. By the end of it, the source has traveled to a point close enough that the volume nearly makes her wince, if only she’d had time to do so before it collides directly with her chest. She only catches sight of pink and orange, but that’s enough for her to identify the woman, especially when combined with the _strength_ of the tackle, sending her to the floor — back hitting the grass with enough force to expel her breath, a solid body straddling her as soon as she lands — when her boot catches on an uneven patch of ground.

“Nora — ” she groans, but then can’t continue any further, because Nora is kissing her, a loud smacking sort of thing that only lasts the two seconds it takes for Yang to realize what’s happening and who it’s happening in front of. After that, she’s sitting up, sending Nora tumbling to the side, though she appears completely unfazed, grinning widely from her place on the floor.

“Didja miss me?”

Yang blinks and then finally looks up, searching for Blake, who’s looking down at them with an expression so blank it had to be hiding _something,_ though Yang can’t begin to guess what that might be.

“Um — yeah — of course.” She shakes her head, clearing away competing thoughts. “Obviously.”

“Perhaps not quite enough to warrant that _particular_ greeting, however,” a new voice adds, and then Ren is there, pulling Nora to her feet and offering a hang to Yang as well, his small smile almost apologetic.

Nora scoffs, waving her hand in dismissal and Ren helps Yang up, nothing about his form betraying any kind of effort on his part, even when Yang lets him take most of her weight.

“Oh, _please_ , Yang _loves_ my hugs.”

“ _Was_ that a hug though?” She laughs though, starting to brush some of the dirt and grass off her pants, only stopping when another hand joins in on the efforts, a soft touch along her spine. It’s Blake (of course) though her face doesn’t reveal much of anything when Yang glances over.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, and _oh_ , even she can hear how soft she sounds, and it makes her glance away quickly — back to Ren and Nora — who suddenly _both_ look a lot more interested in the woman standing next to her, though Ren does a better job in hiding it. “Oh, and — _yeah_ — this is Blake.”

“Could have guessed,” Nora says with a wide grin (and Yang isn’t totally sure what _that_ means, but she doesn’t much like it). Her hand darts out to grab and shake Blake’s free one with a vigorous pump. “We’ve heard a lot about you Blake!”

Yang’s eyes narrow. “ _Have_ you?”

“Oh, yes,” Ren nods. “We’ve seen the videos Weiss has sent Pyrrha. We all rather admire your ski style.”

“Weiss takes _videos_ of you?” Yang asks, pressing her palm to her forehead. “Oh my god, that’s weird as hell.”

“It’s actually proven to be quite valuable,” Blake says, shrugging a shoulder. “As far as I understand, it’s a practice she started with Pyrrha.”

“Yeah, but I always thought that was a weird foreplay thing.” _Everyone_ makes a face at that, even Yang. “Okay, okay. Too far. Um — but hey, what _is_ Pyrrha doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see her, but… we weren’t expecting it. And where’s Jaune?”

Nora and Ren exchange a long look — one that means there’s something to say, but they don’t know how to say it — and Yang’s brow dips, eyes flicking back over to where Pyrrha, Weiss, and Ruby are still talking (or, where _Ruby_ is talking, while Weiss and Pyrrha try and fail to stop looking at each other at regular intervals).

“Jaune had to stay back home because of work. But Pyrrha felt like — ” Nora falters, looking to Ren, who picks up where she left off.

“ — A vacation.”

It’s weird. It’s _all_ weird, but Nora and Ren don’t seem to want to be any more forthcoming, and Blake’s expression is still _blank_ , maybe even stiff, and there’s so much off-balance, that Yang doesn’t even know where to begin.

“Well. Cool. All of us should hit up the mountain before she leaves then. A few chill runs.”

“I’m sure she would enjoy that,” Ren says, like all of them haven’t been friends for fucking ever.

“Um. Cool,” Yang says again, and nearly winces at the silence that follows. She can manage this, she knows, but only by biting off a bit at a time. “Do you two want anything to drink? Blake and I haven’t had a chance to visit the bar, so we were gonna… do that.”

That, at least, perks Nora up. “Oh _hell_ yeah. _That’s_ what we need. Did you make _my_ Jungle Juice? That’s what I want. Or no, maybe I should go _fancy_ with something like — oh, I dunno absinthe? Do you guys have absinthe? What’s the one with that and champagne? Oh! And Pyrrha wanted a… whiskey? No, that doesn’t sound right, but it _was_ something she doesn’t normally get. It was weird. And Weiss wanted — you know what? We should probably check on them and get their drink orders again. We got distracted by — well — _you_.”

Yang nods, by now well used to Nora’s tendency to ramble, and Ren does the same, taking Nora’s hand with a small smile, allowing himself to be lead away.

“We’ll catch up later,” he says mildly, but not without significance, and then (to Nora). “Maybe we should write things down this time.”

As they go, Yang watches Blake out of the corner of her eye, only turning once Nora and Ren are out of earshot, and even then, Blake only tilts her head, blinking slowly, giving nothing away.

“Sorry about that.” It feels like a good place to start (it covers a lot).

“No need. I’m sure you’re pleased to have your friends back.” She nods towards the makeshift bar — the line of kegs and bottles and mixes — but the smile feels too careful (or maybe Yang’s just projecting). “Drinks?”

“Yeah. Right.” Yang pauses, uncertain if she should continue, but finds she can’t _not_. “But is this something we should talk about?”

Blake barely lets her finish her question.

“No,” she says, as though it’s as simple as that.

“I just — that’s just how Nora is. We’re not — I mean it’s not anything serious between her and me and it’s honestly been a while since we even — it’s usually just when she’s feeling — ”

“Yang,” Blake cuts in and _finally_ there’s something in her tone that isn’t an absence of everything. It’s not exasperation or reassurance, but rather an odd mix of the two. “It’s _fine_. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I think we should though.” Her smile twitches with uncertainty, but she presses forward, despite it. “Just — I’ll talk to her okay? I don’t like to be with more than one person at once. So she should know that. _You_ should. I know you don’t care or whatever, and you can do whatever you want, but… that’s what I’m gonna do.”

It’s a declaration of _something_ (if not total exclusivity) and Blake is slow to react. But when she does, it’s with a small smile.

“No, I — I prefer that as well.”

“It’s less complicated, not having to worry about multiple partners,” Yang says, voice calm.

“Yeah.” Blake nods. “It’s easier this way.”

And maybe Yang’s projecting with this too, but Blake’s smile looks exactly how she feels (full of things she shouldn’t be thinking about, like _relief_ ).

 

—

 

Yang can’t figure out if Weiss calling their first official group meeting at nine o’clock the morning after the bonfire is revenge for _having_ the bonfire in the first place, or a misguided attempt to keep busy with Pyrrha in town, but Yang thinks it’s probably a solid combination of the two. Especially when she slumps into a seat at the table, wiping at her eyes with one hand, holding a PopTart with the other, and finally looks up.

Because Weiss is clearing her throat. Tugging at the cuffs of her sleeve. Straightening her tie.

Her fucking _tie_.

There’s a moment — just a moment — when Yang thinks she going to be able to keep it together, but then she looks across the table, catches Blake’s eye, sees the way she’s biting the inside of her cheek with _no_ small amount of force, and loses it completely.

“Oh my _god_ , Weiss. What the fuck are you wearing?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She tugs on her cuffs again and _god_ there are cufflinks. There are _honest to god_ _cufflinks_.

“What the fuck are we? Is this fucking Mad Men? Am I — what’s _happening_?”

“Yang,” Blake begins, but she’s looking at the _table_ , still hiding her laugh, so Yang doesn’t pay the warning tone much mind.

“She’s in a _suit_!”

“It’s important to dress smartly for a business meeting, Yang,” Weiss sniffs. “It sets a precedent.”

Yang glances down at herself, takes in her own baggy sweatpants and tank top, then looks back up, blinking in disbelief. To her right, Ruby, wearing her customary red hoodie, has managed to shove _most_ of her head inside of a Cheetos bag, licking the inside of the wrapper with no small amount of vigor. Across the table, Blake is wearing simple black jeans and a plain, quarter-zip jacket, and she _might_ look respectable if not for that stupid grin she’s barely managing to hide.

And then there’s Weiss.

In a fucking tailored, dark grey suit and a Republican-red tie.

“The business is _just us_! We’re not at a bank!”

“I think she looks really nice,” Ruby says with a smile, effect only slightly ruined by the fact that the lower half of her face is pretty much stained orange.

“Oh, well, _yeah. Obviously_ she looks good.” She turns to Weiss, hands outstretched. “You look hot. It’s a good suit. But we’re also in our spare bedroom. Sitting at a shitty fold-out card table. With mismatched chairs. And there’s a cardboard cutout of Xena in the corner so like, I don’t know how professional this could possibly get, even _with_ you rocking a suit like some head boss bitch lady.”

Weiss appears to be slightly mollified at all this, enough so that Blake leans forward, eyes darting towards the aforementioned cardboard cutout.

“I was going to ask about the Xena situation, actually.”

“Gift from Nora. It was National Lesbian Day, or something? Honestly, it was a little unclear. It usually is.”

Weiss clears her throat again. “If we could _please_ get back to our meeting? _Clearly_ , a little professionalism could go a long way here. Perhaps next time you all will join me in dressing for the occasion, now that we’re a full cohort.”

‘ _Cohort_ ’ Yang mouths at Blake, who completely ignores her.

Or… not _completely_ because someone’s foot suddenly brushes up against her ankle, lifting the elastic of her pant leg as it slides further up and Yang isn’t about to look down, but she’s _pretty_ sure she knows exactly who it belongs to.

(Spoiler alert: it’s most definitely the woman she’s having sex with on the _regular_ now. The same woman who is studiously avoiding looking at her, lips pressed into a thin line as she nods at Weiss.)

“You’re right, Weiss,” Blake says calmly. “We need to take these meetings seriously if we hope to take Ruby Customs to the next level.”

“Oh, right. _Super_ serious. We’re _all_ clearly so serious here.” She nudges Blake’s foot with her own, which only seems to encourage her to move it higher up Yang’s leg.

“Can our first order of business be changing the name? You guys know I don’t like how I’m the only one represented, right? It feels weird.” Ruby’s pout is large, and only emphasized by the Cheetos stain, and Blake immediately jumps back in, tone apologetic.

“It’s just a placeholder for now, Ruby,” she says, gentle and kind, and when Yang’s cheek drops into her palm, she can feel her own smile as she watches the interaction. “But from talking to your past clients, that _is_ how people refer your business to friends.”

“Speaking of that.” Weiss clears her throat again, and Yang’s head sags a little more. “Blake and I have been doing some market research. If you’ll take a look at the packets in front of you, you’ll notice we have broken it into seven sections.”

It’s not that Yang doesn’t care. Or even that she doesn’t understand it. She just thinks that _maybe_ Weiss has a tendency to go a little overboard when it came to sharing information with the team. It’s not like Blake needed to know how to properly cut out a sidewall for them to be effective as a team; there was a limit on how much cross-training could exist in a business like this. But even with all that, even at nine (the morning after Yang had consumed several shots and then pressed Blake against a tree trunk in the backyard after most of their guests had filtered out), generally she would be willing to pay a little more attention than she _currently_ was, because it made Weiss happy. Unfortunately, Blake’s foot was now _well_ up her leg, practically in her seat, and it made absorbing information _slightly_ more difficult. ( _Okay_ , it made it _impossible_.)

“ — That’s why we think a June 2019 soft launch will be our smartest move. Any questions, _Yang_?”

Yang _jumps_ and, worse, so does Blake, jerking her leg away with the force of it. But Weiss’s glare is entirely on her (and Ruby _might_ be asleep with her eyes open), so no one really notices the dual reaction, just her own. She offers Weiss a wide grin and sits up, tucking both feet behind the legs of her chair.

“Uh huh, Weiss. That’s absolutely right and I have no questions whatsoever.”

Weiss sighs and presses two fingers to her forehead. “ _Yang_.”

“I’m listening! I got you! Keep on going with your — ” Yang glances down at the packet in front of her, flipped to what’s probably the wrong page. “ — customer journey analytics.”

“That’s _not_ what I — ”

Ruby yelps, and nearly jumps out of her seat, and Yang would be glad for the distraction if not for the furritive look Ruby shoots first _her_ and then Blake, which makes it pretty clear exactly what had caused her such distress. Or, _no_ , Yang’s still glad for the distraction, because Blake looks mortified (it’s cute) and Weiss is annoyed at _all_ of them now, so it’s kind of a win-win situation.

“Hey, Blake,” Yang begins in a stage whisper. “If you thought you were touching _me_ right then, you were _definitely_ wrong.”

Blake isn’t the only one to blush at _that_.

The rest of the meeting isn’t exactly their most productive.

 

—

 

Afterwards, though, it occurs to Yang that _maybe_ she should have had a conversation with Ruby about all of this beforehand. Or at least _tried_ to. Ruby isn’t exactly the sort to pay attention to anything related to this _particular_ area of Yang’s life, but there’s Weiss’s annoyance (and her tendency to _share_ said annoyance with Ruby) to consider in this particular case, and Yang figures it’d be better if it came from her, even if ‘too little too late’ might very well apply to the situation.

She grabs her after Weiss releases them for the day (a little too reluctantly for Yang’s taste), hooking her fingers in the hood of her jacket and tugging her aside, back towards the end of the hall. Blake notices, but only raises a brow, following Weiss into the kitchen, where they’ve been promised some sort of brunch that Yang’s pretty sure Weiss has every intention of making _her_ cook as some sort of penance.

“Hey,” she begins, once Ruby’s spun around to face her, silver eyes wide. “This thing with Blake… do we have to talk about it?”

Ruby’s answer is immediate and vehement, complete with a furious shake of her head.

“ _Nope_!” But then she pauses, eyes widening even further, voice squeaking at the start. “Unless _you_ want to — ”

“Nope.”

And that’s it, leaving the two of them staring at each other in silence.

“Alrighty, then!”

“Yeah. Great.” She pauses. “Breakfast?”

“Yes, _please_.”

Yang feels like there are probably things left unsaid, but dislikes the thought so much that she ignores it.

 

—

 

Their plan of attack, such as it is, can be summarized as divide and conquer.

Also, lie a little.

“Are we sure this is the best idea? You saw them at the bonfire.”

In the two days that had passed since then, Yang has discovered a few things: 1) Pyrrha and Jaune had split up, 2) Weiss knew this and had known this since it happened a _couple months ago_ , and 3) No one really knew _how_ to feel about number one. It was a tricky situation, especially for Nora and Ren, who seemed utterly torn between loyalty to both of their friends, but everyone could at least agree that Weiss and Pyrrha needed to _talk_ , for better or worse, because right now everything was just _uncomfortable_. Yang had thought she would _die_ in the car ride over with the two of them in her backseat; she and Blake had managed a stilted conversation for a few minutes over the loud silence from the back, but after a while, she’d given up and turned on some Kesha.

“Something’s gotta give, Ruby,” Yang sighs. “They have to _talk_ about it.”

“Even if they don’t _do_ anything about it,” Nora says, bouncing slightly in her nervousness. “I mean, they _shouldn’t_ do anything about it, right? It’s only been a little while and Jaune is — oh, I don’t _like_ this. It feels bad. I feel bad.”

“They need to talk,” Ren says calmly, resting a palm on Nora’s shoulder, visibly settling her. “Whether it’s to finally close an old chapter or start a new one.”

“So we’re agreed?” Yang’s arms fold, one over the other. “We break off into groups — use the two-man lift at Jupe as an excuse — and say we’ll meet at Summit House at 2:00, but _really_ get there sometime around 2:30.”

She gets three nods in return, and just in time. Blake, who’d gone with Weiss and Pyrrha to find some skis and boots for Pyrrha, is the first one she spots entering the room (which definitely says more about _her_ than anything else) and she slides the group back into more casual conversation before the three women reach them.

Splitting into their groups takes a little more finesse, but Ruby skips around most of that with a bright smile and some bullshit about needing to stick with Ren and Nora to make sure their board and skis weren’t damaged in transit back and forth from California. And Yang only needs to wink at Weiss to get her to scoff at — and then acquist to — her request to take Blake as her lift buddy (even if she could have done _without_ the subsequent muttering from the woman, and the amused smile that Pyrrha, out of politeness, _almost_ manages to hold back).

After that, all that’s left to do is avoid and delay, and Yang — given her present company — is more than happy to do it, lazily sliding towards one of her favorite spots on the mountain (right at the top of the highest peak in the region, along the back of the ridge) and flopping down into the snow, the edge of her board digging into the ground as she leans back, unstrapping her helmet and shaking out her hair.

“Snowboarder sitting privilege,” Blake grumbles, popping out of her bindings and sticking her skis and poles into the ground somewhere behind Yang’s back. “All of you doing this at the top of slopes is why skiers hate you, you realize.”

“Skiers hate us because all of y’all are nerds,” Yang sing-songs, patting the spot alongside her. “And honestly, all I’m hearing right now is you’re _insanely_ jealous and you want me to teach you how to board. Listen, I hear you. You don’t have to beg, babe. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

Blake laughs as she sits down, close enough for their hips to brush, but it has an odd sort of tint to it, and Yang turns to try to find a better understanding in Blake’s expression. She doesn’t quite find it there, but she does smile, pleased to meet Blake’s eyes — fleck of gold reflecting in the sun — helmet and goggles having been set aside.

“I actually _have_ tried snowboarding. I had a… friend who taught me.”

 _Oh_ , and there’s something odd there too. Something strained. Yang leans in closer — her elbow glancing along Blake’s — offering comfort automatically, but not yet knowing why. After a moment, Blake continues without any prompting, and Yang takes careful note of every microexpression that flits across her face.

“It’s how I got my scar. The one on my hip.” She gestures, but there’s no need. Yang has seen it often enough by now (avoided it ever since the first time she had). “I was on a trail I shouldn’t have been on. My friend, he thought — well — he told me I could handle it. But the ice was bad and I was still new to it and… I fell.”

Her eyes narrow in remembrance, or maybe pain, as she looks out over the mountains stretched out before them, endless ranges, one after the other, all coated white. It seems to bring her some peace, and she continues.

“We were doing side-country, right under a lift, and there was a broken pole under the snow where I fell, _just_ sticking out and it — ” She winces as she trails off and Yang does too, trying not to imagine the sensation that would have resulted from the puncture. “After that, I didn’t have much interest in continuing, especially not with… that particular friend.”

The wind at the top of the mountain is always most biting, so Yang has a good excuse for scooting closer, especially in her vest, but she’s not sure Blake buys the action as being practical when Yang’s gloved hand presses over her own. (But then, she _is_ sure that Blake doesn’t care.)

“I get that,” she says simply, because she does, and Blake immediately understands why, eyes darting towards Yang’s arm, scanning along the tattoos, looking always grateful for a new path to take in the conversation.

“Yours was worse. Did you think about — ”

“Quitting?” Yang finishes for her, and then offers a small smile. “Yeah. The whole time I was in the hospital. The whole time I was going through surgeries and PT. And after too. It wasn’t even just the crash — like, it wasn’t really the pain of it. But it felt like someone had — I dunno — taken the joy out of it? I didn’t get into it before, but the crash kinda happened because things got a little _heated_ between me and another boarder and he — ”

Yang sighs, feeling stupid for having to explain, but then Blake’s hand flips, fingers intertwining with her own, and it’s enough to continue past the discomfort.

“It doesn’t matter, really, but it made me afraid, I guess. Of more than falling and of more than him. Just like, the _idea_ of there being things _so_ outside of my control that could do so much damage. I _hated_ that. I still hate it.”

Blake nods, slow and thoughtful, and then smiles. “But you’re here.” She nudges Yang’s shoulder with enough gentleness to make her ache. “Aren’t you?”

“I’m here,” Yang agrees, her own smile growing, unbidden. “After the accident, Ruby made me a new board — this one, actually.” By way of gesture, she shakes out her snowboard, sending chunks of snow flying in the air. “That’s why it’s got the little 8-bit fire theme going on; Ruby and her video games, you know?”

“I like it,” Blake says, earnest. “And ‘watch me ignite’. I like that too.”

It’s written along the bottom of her board, among the pixelated flames, and Yang’s honestly surprised Blake had noticed, though she’s not sure why.

“Weiss’s contribution. She’s — I dunno if she’s ever told you — but she’s like, a _lyricist_ or poet or some shit. Me and Ruby are _pretty_ sure she’s written stuff about us, but we’ve never been able to get her to confess to it.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Anyways, after they did all that, I couldn’t _not_ get back on the slopes. Even if I _really_ wanted to throw it all in, totally switch gears, and like, become a farmer or something. Raise goats or whatever.”

“Goats?” Blake asks with a soft snort.

“Yeah! They’re _cool_! Or maybe evil. I don’t know, I haven’t decided.”

“Clearly you thought it through. Glad you stuck to the snowboarding, in the end.” Blake’s foot nudges against her own, then rests (lightly) on the top of the board. Yang can feel the weight, but only just, and not in a way that feels unpleasant.

“Me too.” She licks her lips. “Even if that first day back — _god_ — I couldn’t stop shaking. I thought I was going to fall over just from how bad my knees were wobbling. I threw up in the bushes by the Viking Yurt before we went down for our first run. Never told Ruby and Weiss about that bit, actually. But, hey, I made it through. And like you said, I’m here.”

Yang looks away, sucking in a deep breath, feeling the cool pierce her lungs in the way she’d always liked: sharp and biting and _real,_ air expanding as it warmed on its way to the center of her chest. Sitting alongside Blake, looking out over the mountains she loves, it’s hard to imagine a more perfect place anywhere in the world. Her smile widens into a grin, unrestrained, letting herself feel all of it. But when she looks back at Blake, it softens, struck by the look on her face: focused and quiet, eyebrows high, only one corner of her lips lifting upwards.

“Come over tonight,” Blake says, abrupt, like the words are barely hers to control. “Sun’s in Brighton with Neptune, so you can stay the night.”

There are a lot of things Yang could say, then. A few questions she could ask.

But she doesn’t, unwilling to voice any of them, or anything at all.

Instead, she nods.

 

—

 

She and Blake make it to lunch at 3:00, and their excuse is genuine.

(Blake’s hair is beyond tostled and Yang has a hickey on her neck and the First Aid shack at the top of Jupiter has been defiled, for what Yang’s positive can't have been the first time.)

Even Ruby rolls her eyes at them when they arrive, but everything looks _good_ — Weiss (and Ren) are laughing at a story Pyrrha is telling and there’s none of the tension in their shoulders that has been present over the past couple days — so Yang doesn’t feel guilty at all.

(Especially when Blake’s hand brushes against her lower back and she thinks of way _stay the night_ had passed through her lips, as natural as breathing.)

 

—

 

She’s been to Blake’s place before — obviously she’s been to Blake’s place before — but this is the first time she’s seen it without hurry, with enough light outside to still take it all in. It’s sparsely decorated, but not in a bourgeois way; it looks clean and carefully constructed, everything chosen with care, without feeling like a catalog. The prints are framed, not extravagantly, but purposeful, and the combination of furniture is slightly disjointed, but in a way that works.

(It’s sturdy too, and this Yang knows from experience. The first time she’d been here, Blake had shoved her onto the couch, told her that Sun — the roommate — would be home in fourteen minutes, and that she didn’t want to waste any of that moving to the bedroom. So they hadn’t.)

Blake’s bedroom is a lot of the same, though even now, when they don’t have to rush, Yang doesn’t take in too much of it; she’s on the bed, Blake underneath her, and it’s really hard to tear herself away from the sight of _that._ (Her lips are already flushed and she looks up at Yang like she already knows exactly what she wants, like she’s been thinking about it since this afternoon.)

“Wait,” she breathes when Yang bends down to kiss her again. “We have time.”

“Yeah.” Yang’s hands are already under Blake’s shirt, their hips pressed together, and she understands the concept of making the most of their extended time, but right then, _that_ involves making Blake come a record number of times, shooting into the high teens — stretching on throughout the night — until she can’t feel her legs, can’t remember her name, can only breathe because her body’s doing it for her, totally autonomous. “We have time.”

“So… let’s take our time.” Blake sits up, fingertips pressing against the skin at Yang’s clavicle, and Yang falls back without any complaint, entranced by the look in Blake’s eyes, the one that says she has ideas (ones that Yang is _really_ going to like). “Grab my jacket. It’s on the ground.”

She says it like Yang doesn’t remember stripping it off of her not ten minutes ago, tugging down the zipper and sliding her hands under the fabric to push it off her shoulders, but Yang _does_ , and so when she leans back and reaches out, she doesn’t have to root around much; Blake’s jacket is crumpled at the foot of the bed, still slightly damp from the melted snow they’d brought in with them, a smear of mud along the shoulder, probably from when they’d kicked off their boots, right after the jacket had hit the floor.

“Look in the left arm pocket, the small one above the elbow.” Blake’s voice is lower than it should be when she’s discussing _pockets_ , but it makes Yang search for it with an eagerness that she probably shouldn’t show, hand groping along the fabric until she finds the small zipper and digs inside. There’s nothing in there outside of a black band, Velcro covering the outside, a small plastic buckle on one end; she holds it up between two fingers, uncertain until Blake’s smile curls into something truly wicked, something that makes warmth pool in the pit of her stomach.

“Ski strap,” Blake explains, eyes dark, hand stretching out, palm up. “Keeps the skis together. I thought we might try using it another way.”

“You want to — ” Yang’s brain seizes, too much information to process at once, too many thoughts fighting to find a way to her tongue. She doesn’t really _need_ coherent thought, though — not just then — and hands over the tie, dropping it into Blake’s waiting hand without looking, unable to tear her gaze away for even a moment. “ — On me?”

“Yeah.” Blake’s tongue runs along the bottom of her teeth. “I want it slow. When you can use your hands you’re — ” She bites down, and Yang grins.

“I’m what?”

Blake shifts, lifting onto her knees, and Yang’s connected to her by a wire, drawn along independently of any conscious thought, leaning forward, tipping close. And when Blake’s hand connects with her forearm, circling around one of the bands inked on her skin, Yang feels it everywhere.

“Too good,” Blake murmurs. “I don’t know how to hold back when you’re giving me everything.”

She shouldn’t say it, but she does:

“Then _don’t_.”

Blake might understand (even if Yang barely does herself), but she pretends not to:

“Or — ?” She holds the Velcro band with her free hand, slides up Yang’s arm with the other. “We could try this.”

It’s not _new_ — not entirely — but Yang’s never been the one restrained, even in a simple way like this. She doesn’t find the idea unappealing, especially with Blake dangling it before her, heat in her eyes, and her hands come out in front of her without much further thought, fingers curling into her palms, wrists pressing against each other. Blake’s fingers trace back down, then spread, covering both of Yang’s fists, and she shakes her head, slow and deliberate.

“No.” She swallows once. “Turn around.”

Yang holds her stare for a long moment, but finally nods, swinging her legs around, dangling them over the edge of the bed, and faces the warm grey of the wall opposite them. (There’s a small frame hung there, a piece of newsprint painted over with the image of a flowering vine, curling up around the trunk of a tree. Yang would find it interesting — would try to see if it were telling — if she could spare it more than a brief, flickering thought.) She repeats her posturing from a moment before, wrists bumping up against each other as they collide behind her back, and Blake’s fingers find her skin again. Her mouth does too, meeting the cut of her jaw in a brief kiss when she leans forward, pressing up against her back.

“It won’t hurt, will it?” she asks, softer now, and her hand moves along Yang’s right arm, by way of explanation. “To be in this position?”

It might — if only a little — but Yang doesn’t know if that’s necessarily a bad thing.

“No,” she rasps.

The material slides under both wrists, wraps around, and it’s coarse, rough, and a little uncomfortable when Blake tightens the strap with the cinch, and fixes the Velcro in place. Yang’s wrists will be raw after this, she knows then, and Blake’s must know as well, because she’s already soothing the skin around the band, fingers moving with careful, deft strokes.

“Safeword?”

“Uh huh. Mothballs.”

Blake’s laugh — a puff of air — is felt more than heard, fluttering a few strands of her hair at the back of her neck, and Yang turns, wanting to see the smile (and all of her). It’s less graceful in reverse, with her hands tied behind her, but not flailing, and the curl of Blake’s lips is still there once she manages it, something dangerous (exciting) about the tilt of it. She only loses sight of it when Blake pulls her shirt over her head, a precise sort of motion that’s just as much of a show as it is practical, revealing bits of skin at a pace that makes Yang’s palms itch. (It’s already torture. She already wants to touch. Achingly. Desperately. Fervently.) And — _yeah_ — the smile is more pointed when she catches sight of it again, sharp enough to cut Yang open, until everything’s spilling out, all of herself revealed in her own wide eyes. Blake pulls her pants off with more speed (or maybe Yang’s just gone beyond understanding time at that point), though her lingerie (purple. lace.) seems to remain on for longer, teasingly so.

“I’m going to devour you,” Yang promises, as soon as Blake is ready (waiting). “And you’re gonna end up begging for my fingers. Even though you asked for this.”

The flush on Blake’s cheeks starts high and travels low; Yang’s eyes follow the path, and as Blake settles back against the pillows, she inches forward on her knees, until she’s right between Blake’s spread legs.

“You’ll have to… prove it.” It’d be aggressive, if not for the hitch in Blake’s breath in the middle; it makes itself known in the staggered lift of her chest and the heat that settles low in her abdomen.

“Lift your hips, baby.” There’s no hitch there. Not even a hint of one. “And I will.”

Blake complies, heels digging into the mattress, providing leverage, and Yang leans down, until Blake stops her with a tilting knee, pressing into her shoulder.

“Mouth only,” she says, and there’s something new (fresh, raw) in her expression when Yang looks up.

“What else do I have?”

She tries to laugh. It doesn’t quite work, and Blake only shakes her head.

“I just — “ Another shake, sharp and quick. “Don’t make me feel too much too fast.”

The words do precisely what they’re meant to caution against; Yang feels everything at once, in every part of her, the heaviest press directly over her chest. But Blake is pleading again (like _I don’t want anything complicated_ and _It’s easier this way_ ) and so she nods and dips her head between Blake’s thighs. Her lips brush first along a point chosen for its distance, caressing the skin just above her knee and sliding upwards — as slow as promised — biting her way along the dark skin, leaving behind a constellation of marks, tongue lapping at the spaces in between. Blake’s hips pulse, small jerks that don’t demand so much as telegraph, and Yang takes them in, translates each lift and responds in kind, nips harder when it’s required, uses her tongue to soothe when it’s preferred.

She doesn’t get the first sign of desperation until she switches legs — back at Blake’s knee, but on the right — and Blake groans, louder than she usually does, loud enough for Yang to know that her head is falling back, forming a curve — the graceful one along her neck — that artists would paint with trembling fingers. (She doesn’t need watercolors or acrylics or oils; it’s been burned in her mind since the first time she saw it.) But she doesn’t beg, not yet, and so Yang continues her careful pace.

The ski strap digs into her wrist as she shifts, and her position — bending low as her mouth continues its path — isn’t particularly comfortable, but Blake is squirming now, want fully overpowering any lingering smugness, and Yang hardly cares about comfort when Blake’s fingers slide into her hair and tug. She gets her first ‘ _Yang_ ’ then, a quiet, not-quite-plead when Yang pauses — her breathing labored — carefully poised at her center.

“Yeah?” she asks, eyes lifting, lips curling.

Blake tugs again — strands of hair wrapped around her fingers — harder this time. “Your _mouth_. Use it.”

“I’ve been using it. You wanted slow,” Yang reminds her, smug and pedantic, and laughs when Blake nearly growls, pushing _down_ on her head now, an action with far more direction.

She obliges, if only in spirit, because when she drops her head, and her lips finally meet Blake’s clit, it’s still slow, not as hard as Blake surely wants, far too teasing. But it’s hardly unfair. She feels the building tension in herself as much as she can sense it in Blake; not being able to touch (to press her hands to Blake’s hips and feel the way they roll, to stroke along her outer thighs, to reach between her _own_ legs as she tastes Blake) is agony and she knows this is a race to see who will fall apart first. She’s determined to win though, and by now, she’s memorized the spots to hit, the pace to meet, the precise rhythm to strike to make Blake come, and she avoids _all_ of it, skirting close, but backing off before she gets there. Blake’s grip on her hair is close to painful — as is the fabric cutting into her wrists — but it grounds her, focuses her intentions to a sharp point that she applies with precision, until she knows she’s close to what she wants, until Blake’s panting her name regularly, until her thrusts against Yang’s face are desperate and messy and unfocused.

“Yang,” Blake whines. “I’m — you — _fuck_.”

Close, but not _quite_ there yet. Blake’s back lifts off the mattress and Yang wants to _see_ it, wants to feel the curve of it, trace it with her fingers, but _later later later_. She will _later_. They have _time_ , Blake had said. _They have time_ and the meaning of that blurs, becomes something more, becomes something Yang wants desperately, something she sinks into or maybe stores away. And within it, Yang remembers what it means to be patient, ignores the ache in her jaw, and takes her time. It takes another few false starts — painful ventures to the edge — until Blake gives in, gasps blurring into one another as she tries to find the words.

She finds them after a few breathless attempts:

“Yang, _please_.”

It’s been a steady pulse in the background, the thought of what she would do _precisely_ when this moment hit, so Yang doesn’t hesitate before tugging sharply at the restraint binding her wrists, twisting her fists in opposite directions, uncaring of the way the material burns marks into her skin. The Velcro tears, falling away, and she nearly whimpers in relief when she can _touch_ , one hand sliding under that pretty arch in Blake’s spine, palm flattening there and keeping her _just_ in place, the other joining her mouth, sliding three fingers deep into Blake’s cunt. She’s so wet, so ready, that Blake’s _gone_ after that, almost as soon as Yang’s inside of her. Her legs come up, clamping around Yang’s head, and when Blake says her name — over and over and over again — it’s almost in time with the heartbeat Yang can feel in Blake’s inner thigh, pressed right against her ear.

She doesn’t stop there, (of course she doesn’t stop there) pushing Blake past the seemingly unbearable over-stimulation and bringing her back up again — once, twice more — until Blake can barely manage a moan, collapsing into the mattress with the bonelessness of the truly fucked.

Only then does Yang lift her head and withdraw her fingers, sucking on them absently, aware that there’s no need for show when Blake’s eyes are tightly shut, but unwilling to waste the taste by wiping it off on the shirt she’s still — almost inexplicably — wearing. She strips before she lies down, quickly removing the clothing so she can feel Blake’s skin against hers when she presses against her, fingertips ghosting along the tautness of her stomach, following the dips and curves, exploring without the purpose of stimulation. Blake hums, moving only enough to flop her head to the other side, eyes opening a crack.

“That was — ” she begins (words little more than a rasp) then stops.

“Good?” Yang offers.

Blake’s shoulders lift once with her exhale, not quite a laugh. “Don’t start being modest _now_.”

With a laugh far less subtle, Yang leans into her with a grin, pressing a kiss to her jaw. “Incredible? Mind-blowing? The best you’ve ever been fucked?”

“Skipping from modest to _that_ , mm?” She reaches up, hand finding Yang’s cheek, fingers resting against it lightly, barely stroking. Yang, desire still burning on a low flame, finds that the gentle touch twists something inside of her that’s at once unrelated and intimately connected to her steady and heavy want.

“You’re not denying it, though,” she says, none of the ego of her words present in her tone. “I’m gonna call that a victory.”

“I’ll let you have this one.” Her eyes flutter shut again, head drooping a bit more, temple bumping up against Yang’s forehead.

Her fingers spread out on Blake’s abdomen, then curl around her side; she can’t really pull her any closer — physically, there’s no space between them — but it’s nice to know she’s in a position that would allow her to try. “Yeah, because you’re too well fucked to argue.”

“Just wait,” Blake murmurs. “One more minute and I’ll be — be ready to go. And then the turn — the tables are turning.”

“Did you just almost say ‘turntables’?” Yang asks, laughter soft enough to not jostle Blake from the sleep she’s _clearly_ falling into.

“Shut up, Yang. I’m gonna — ” Her words fall into unintelligible mumbles and Yang smiles, warmth filling her chest.

“Uh huh. You totally will, babe. Just take a beat.”

Blake takes several, breaths evening out over time; Yang’s fingers trace up and down her side, timed to the rise and fall of her chest, and — as she watches Blake’s face smooth out in her sleep, all the carefully maintained constructions fading away — she thinks this might be the clearest she’s ever seen her.

She looks away.

Somehow, it doesn’t feel like it’s something she’s been given permission to see.

 

—

 

Yang doesn’t remember much of her accident.

A blur of red, a panicked swerve, and the drop of her stomach when there was no longer ground beneath her is all she can recall. When she dreams about it, it’s the last one that’s featured most: the feeling of falling. Funny, how that’s stuck with her more than the pain that followed, but she can still remember it so _vividly_ , the brief moment of weightlessness — the suspended moment where it felt almost _freeing_ and beautiful and perfect — before the panic clawed at her throat and overpowered anything else, and she started to fall.

And when she wakes up from _that_ , she’s right there — right on the brink of that — falling into the fear. Her body shakes with it, sitting up in bed — breaths coming too quick — without the memory of having jerked awake at all. Understanding is always slow in coming; she spends most of the time before it hits steadying her breathing, curling her fingers in and out of fists, willing the shaking to stop.

Being in Blake’s bed doesn’t change any of that, not at first. The process of resetting herself is still much of the same (the measured breaths, the clench of her fingers), until a hand falls on her back, pressing gently into the blade of her shoulder, and everything seems to skip forwards. (Her hands fall to her side, her breathing stops and then starts again, nearly even now.)

“Yang?”

Blake’s voice still holds sleep in it — softening her consonants, slurring her vowels — and maybe that’s why it sounds so much more _open_ than it usually does. (Maybe that’s why Yang responds in kind.)

“Bad dream.” She’s afraid to break whatever’s settled around them and whispers rather than speaks. “Nothing… specific. Sometimes all I can remember is falling.”

She can feel Blake’s shiver against her back, especially when she presses closer, chin falling on Yang’s shoulder. Her skin is warm — as warm as Yang’s — from when they had been pressed together in sleep, and there’s nothing separating them, nothing keeping that warmth from passing between them now (it sinks deep, a sensation not unlike taking a sip of coffee on a cold day).

“Sounds awful.”

“It’s — ” Yang pauses, unsure how to explain, but willing to try, in a way she rarely (if ever) is. “It feels good at the start. Just for a half-second. Like that feeling astronauts talk about when they’re floating in space. It’s like nothing can touch you, not even gravity. Before you remember you have to be afraid.” Her face pinches, annoyed at how it sounds. “Or — I dunno — it sounds stupid when you say it outloud. But it’s like — a good feeling going bad is worse than just a bad one the whole time. For me, I mean.”

Blake is quiet for a moment, dropping a kiss onto Yang’s shoulder in the silence.

“For me too.” Another kiss, this time to her neck, after Blake draws her hair to the side. “Sometimes I… have those nightmares too. About my accident. The moment when it went from exciting to out of control. It always stops before —” Blake’s lips move just behind her ear, nipping at the skin there rather than continuing her thought.

“Yeah.” Yang swallows, then turns, twisting her torso, only for Blake’s mouth to find hers before she can even catch sight of the woman. It’s softer than she expects (given the speed with which it starts), and Yang’s hand finds Blake’s cheek in the middle of it, fingers curling around her jaw with a level of care that would feel excessive if not for the heavy weight of the moment, ready to collapse with the slightest misstep.

“You let me fall asleep,” Blake murmurs, a little accusingly.

“Yeah, I did. It was good for my ego.” She smiles, and feels Blake’s form in return, right against her own. “Now I can say that I _literally_ made you pass out from pleasure.”

“Because _that’s_ what you need: me boosting your ego.”

There’s a large window in Blake’s room, taking up nearly the entirety of the wall to the left of her bed. There aren’t any curtains and the blinds are open, so when Yang pulls back, Blake’s features are well lit by the moon. It’s only then that Yang realizes that it’s snowing, because the falling flakes — small and light as they are — distort the light they pass through, making the exact shadows that form in the planes of Blake’s face fleeting, inconsistent.

(All moments are transient, but none more than this.)

“You’re always doing that.” Her thumb brushes against the corner of Blake’s lips. “Just being _here_ is doing that.”

It’s _almost_ too much. Blake’s eyes dip down in careful avoidance (and Yang’s hand drops as she pulls away), but they catch on Yang’s shoulder as she turns, rather than drift away completely. Yang lets out a breath when Blake shifts up onto her knees and tilts her head, relief hitting hard.

“What?” she asks, hesitant, feeling the moment teeter.

“You have freckles here.”

The blankets had bunched at her waist when she’d sat up — panic like a tightening string, pulling her upright — but Blake brushes them back further now, hand sliding around Yang’s side to rest at the bone of her hip, bracing herself against it as she leans in to kiss Yang’s shoulder, right along the few freckles dotting the skin.

“A couple. You like them.” It’s not a question, not really, but less of a confident declaration than a statement of wonder.

“I do.”

Blake’s nose brushes against Yang’s cheek when she lifts her head. Her fingers drum against Yang’s hip, like a hint, and Yang sits up a little straighter, curling her legs around and getting on her knees. The shift means Blake can move closer, press firmly against Yang’s back, and Yang groans when she does. As though she’s chasing the sound (the vibrations), Blake’s lips meet the side of her throat, teeth brushing against it, but not biting. One of her hands — the one not dipping down the cut of her abs — brushes along the curve of Yang’s breast, following the outline with a reverence that makes Yang’s knees shake, once and then twice. The whole of it is so painfully gentle that Yang’s glad to be facing away (anything more direct — anything more than Blake’s face in her peripheral — and she’d be overrun).

“No teasing,” Yang says, even if it’s unfair, even if teasing is _all_ she’d done to Blake earlier.

But Blake accedes easily, mouth at the shell of Yang’s ear. “Okay.”

(Maybe she knows just as well as Yang does: they can’t hold onto this moment for long.)

The strange gentleness persists, even when Blake’s touch turns purposeful, even when her thumb is at Yang’s clit, even when Yang’s head drops back and Blake can more easily kiss along her neck. The whole room — Yang, Blake, the movement between them — is caught between two breaths, and it’s hard to comprehend things like time or speed or direction. But Yang knows when Blake’s pace picks up, when she curls a finger inside of her (and then another), when she whispers soft words that sound like encouragement but might be something else entirely, when Yang’s own moans start to bounce off the walls.

It does occur to her that she might be dreaming, probably around the time she notices Blake’s hips are rocking gently in time with hers, bodies rolling together like a dance, but it’s not sharp enough — or, _no_ , entirely too sharp, too clear. She doesn’t think her mind is capable of _this_ , because otherwise she would dream of it every night: the light pants in her ear, the desperation of her touch when she reaches back to pull Blake (impossibly) closer, the echoing noise of the room that somehow contains the press of silence in the sound.

So it must be real, then, when she comes and her body is shaking and Blake pulls her close and supports her weight against her front and says her name in her ear. Real, too, when she tugs her back down, pulling the covers up around them, and tucks herself against Yang’s side, hand settling just under her sternum (all of her warm, all of her soft).

“You feel better than anything I’ve ever touched,” Blake whispers, and Yang doesn’t think before replying.

“I’ve never been touched by anything better than you.”

(Still, there’s a part of her that doubts the reality.

And it’s because of this: it feels exactly like the moment in her dreams right before she falls.)

 

—

 

She wakes up too early, a buzzing in her ear. The sound isn’t recognizable to her at first, not until the weight next to her rolls a bit further in and reaches around, fumbling with something on the nightstand until the noise stops.

“Must be late,” Blake grumbles. “I have it silenced until nine on the weekends.”

“Who cares? Go back to sleep.” But then Yang cracks open an eye and everything is white and she forgets to be tired, forgets her own advice. “Oh my god, it _snowed.”_

 _“_ We live in Utah and it’s January, of course it snowed.”

Yang scrambles out from underneath her (and Blake groans in complaint), snagging a sweater off the ground and hastily tugging it on, before rushing to the window, nearly pressing her nose to the glass.

“No, Blake, it _snowed_.”

The emphasis feels warranted. Yang remembers the forecast: 1-3 inches — just a dusting overnight — but what’s outside is a solid three feet at _least_. It covers everything and covers it thoroughly. If she cranes her neck, she can barely see her car, only the top of the yellow of the Jeep visible from beneath the white. Everything looks softer after a snowfall like this, all the edges of the world blunted by the soft powder, and, when she turns back towards the bed, Blake has the same effect on her smile. Because she’s watching her with a look that feels like it’s holding something new (something she’s not ready to name), and Yang feels herself mirror it (easily mirror it, _so_ easily).

“You’re like a kid finding out that school’s been cancelled.” Blake’s sitting up now, not bothering to cover herself with the sheets that are bunched around her waist, and Yang just stares for a moment, unable to rush past the moment.

“I like the snow,” she finally says with a shrug, because that’s usually explanation enough, but then, because it’s Blake, she continues, gesturing broadly towards the window. “Especially when it’s like… that’s all there is, you know? You can forget about everything else, just for a little while, and get lost in it.”

“I’ve never really thought about it before,” Blake admits, and it’s hard to tell if she’s even thinking about it now; her gaze doesn’t leave Yang’s to look at the scene outside, not even once. “But it sounds like a nice thing to get lost in.”

(And isn’t Blake just like that? Settling in like an unexpected snow, falling overnight, filling all the gaps and cracks and spaces that Yang hadn’t noticed in herself before, until that’s all there is. Until she can’t help but get lost in it.)

“It is.”

Blake’s phone buzzes again and she sighs, rolling her eyes in a way that makes Yang laugh, before grabbing it off the table. Yang turns back to the window, as Blake scrolls through her messages, warmth filling her even as the cold pieces through the glass.

“Hey, I was thinking.” She presses two fingers against the windowpane, drawing aimless shapes into it. “My dad does these big dinners once a month for me, Ruby, and Weiss. We’ve got one coming up this Friday. It’s like, super chill. He usually does burgers or something and we sometimes play board games. Dad’s a big dweeb who likes to get to know all our friends and stuff, so I was wondering if maybe you… wanted to come?”

There’s no response, not even any sort of recognition that Blake’s heard her, so she turns, forehead already scrunched in question, only to find that Blake isn’t looking at her any more, and that her entire countenance has changed. She’s gripping her phone _tight_ and her stare is focused there too, frowning at the screen with more force than Yang’s ever seen. Her stomach rolls in panic first, and then concern.

“Blake, are you — ?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Yang.”

Yang sucks in a sharp breath; it doesn’t lessen the sting.

“It’s just — ” Blake continues, head still down, stare still fixed on her screen. “I think that’s blurring lines too much.”

“Right. Yeah. No problem.” She pushes her sleeves up, just to have something to do, rather than sort through her feelings. Blake’s frown only deepens as she returns the text on her phone, fingers quick, movements furious, almost frantic, and the feeling in Yang’s stomach only gets worse.

“But like, are you okay? I mean, outside of… this. Did you get bad news or something?” She gestures to Blake’s phone, and Blake’s head jerks up to catch the end of it.

“It’s fine. Unrelated. Just a friend reminding me of something.”

The silence between them is awkward, in a way it’s never been. Yang nods and shifts from one foot to the other, while Blake takes care to close off her expression, in the exact way Yang hates.

“Yang,” she begins again, hesitantly. “Are we on the same page still? Because I don’t want — ” Her lips twist down and she cuts herself off. It’s not like she needs to finish. They both know.

(It’s easy to forget in the middle of the winter, but the problem with snow is this: it melts. And when snow melts, it doesn’t leave anything behind, just the dirt and debris that got stuck in it — sticks and lost mittens and a forgotten credit card. For all that Yang loves a fresh snowfall, the emotions behind watching it disappear can be just as strong, if only in the opposite direction.)

“Yeah, for sure.” Yang smiles — and it’s easy and bright, a practiced representation that she knows is effective — then looks back outside, fingers tracing along the glass. “We’re good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. R.I.P Jude. As you once said, “:FIST:”  
> 2\. I had [plastic-pipes](https://plastic-pipes.tumblr.com) draw the scene of the two of them talking at the top of the mountain and it came out GORGEOUS. You can find it [here](https://thecousinsdangereux.tumblr.com/post/184460528558/one-million-hearts-to-plastic-pipes-who-i-had)!  
> 3\. Tiny shout out here to _pugoata_ and farmer!Yang from [Shelter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17868830/chapters/42170114). (Why did it have to be goats?)  
> 4\. Weiss in a suit is for [aziminil](https://aziminil.tumblr.com), who sent me a picture of a girl in a suit and was just like ‘Weiss in this’ and it was very rude.  
> 5\. Blake tying up Yang is dedicated to [powerbottomblake](https://powerbottomblake.tumblr.com), who has the only username I trust. You’ve made your mistakes, Sofi, but I still respect and admire you.  
> 6\. [Sunnyteea](https://sunnyteea.tumblr.com) is the first person who opened my eyes to the idea of Yang having shoulder freckles, so I’ve stolen that here, with permission. Love you, Sunny. <3


	7. all up to you

Chapter 7 - all up to you

_I wear my heart on my sleeve_  
_It's just what I do_  
_But if it’s too much to leap_  
_Won't hold it against you  
_ _It's all up to you_

[Echosmith, _Up to You_ ]

 

—

 

She and Blake are _good_.

Totally fine and absolutely on the same page.

They also don’t speak for the next several days.

It’s a cool down period, she reasons. A chance to reset and reevaluate and brush off the lingering sting of hurt that _must_ have more to do with the general unpleasantness of rejection than anything else. After a few days of Blake not being at the center of her thoughts, the whole thing would be behind them, they could go back to what they’d had, and it would all be _fine._

Sound logic, if not for the one flaw:

She _misses_ Blake.

Somewhere in between the opening (flirtateous) lines exchanged by the two of them and sex in a Deer Valley supply closet, between designing Blake’s skis and walking hand-in-hand at the funeral of a Christmas tree, between card tricks on sticky bar tables and Weiss including Blake’s name in their official (laminated) meeting agendas, Blake had become a daily habit. To the point that in sitting here, now — six of them crammed into Yang’s Jeep, two of them boisterous enough to make up for the rest — the thought comes unbidden: something’s _missing_.

Which is why — though she feels a little bad thinking it — she’s almost relieved there’s so much going on to keep her preoccupied, and all within the ten foot radius of the front and back seat of the car.

“So, you think you’ll be back before the season ends?”

It’s Ruby, of course, the probability being high when she and Nora have been carrying 90% of the conversation on the way to the airport, everyone else too lost in their own thoughts (or not particularly loquacious by nature) to have much to add.

“I don’t suspect I will,” Pyrrha replies, tone much like it’d been throughout the last few days of her stay: polite, careful, controlled. “We’re quite busy at the office and — well — there are only a couple of months more before we hit spring, after all.”

“That’s a shame,” Weiss says, much in the same way. “Your presence will be missed.”

It’s a herculean feat, keeping her groan contained, but Yang manages, a quick exchanged glance with Ruby in the rear view mirror the only thing giving her away. Not that anyone else notices: Weiss’s stare is burning a hole in her own hands, folded in her lap and whiter than the rest of her; Pyrrha’s grip is tight on one of the Jeep’s grab handles, determined to remain stock still with every twist and turn of the mountain road, lest she accidentally brush shoulders with the woman next to her; and Nora seems to be doing everything in her power to get either of them to spare a glance at the other. (Maybe one other person notices, and that’s Ren — calmly sitting in the passenger seat — but he gives no indication of being affected by anything around him, as per usual.)

“Maybe we can come and visit you! This summer! All of us!” Nora punches upwards, fist connecting with the soft top, not for the first or last time. “Just like old times; Pyrrha setting up the rafting trip, Yang taking care of the rock climbing parts, and Weiss picking out a house for all of us to stay at even though we _all_ try to convince her that we’ll tent it up.”

“You forgot the part where everyone is _extremely_ grateful for the house Weiss picks out because it contains showers and air conditioning, which _you_ , in particular, start missing fairly severely after a few days outside.”

Everyone holds their breath, and for a second, all the tension in the car melts away as Weiss smiles at Pyrrha, clear appreciation and affection in the look. But it drops back into place soon enough, both of them looking away from the other as soon as they catch up to the moment.

More of the same, basically, ever since Pyrrha’s departure date had become frantically imminent. It’s frustrating to watch for reasons Yang’s tried hard not to contemplate. (Ruby had whined for _hours_ just two days before that it’d _all_ be fine if they just _talked_ to each other, and for a moment, Yang had been convinced she hadn’t been talking about Weiss and Pyrrha at all.) But no further interference or schemes had been as effective as their first, and all the whining hadn’t done anything other than push Yang further into her own head.

“Oh, come _on_! I’m _incredible_ at roughing it. Don’t you remember when I saved Yang’s _life_ by sucking _deadly_ snake venom out of her thigh?”

“There wasn’t deadly snake venom,” Ren counters in a monotone. “And there wasn’t a snake. You’re misremembering because that’s the story you told all of us when we found you and Yang in the middle of — ”

“Or!” Nora cuts in again with a shout. “What about the time there was a _bear_ in our camp and I scared it off with a _flamethrower_ that I hastily and _ingeniously_ constructed out of a propane tank and — ”

“It was a squirrel. A particularly obese squirrel, but a squirrel neverthe — ”

“And we _all_ remember the time I made a _wilderness_ splint with tree bark and the underwire of my _bra_ when Jaune — ”

Nora cuts _herself_ off at that last one, and the mood falls again.

This time, it persists for the remainder of the ride, awkwardness settling in and holding tight.

In the midst of the forced and sporadic chatter, Yang misses Blake again. The snake bite story _was_ a good one, and her retelling undoubtedly would have resulted in a blush. She’d learned, over the past several months, that there were few things more enticing — or, worse, more endearing — than watching Blake Belladonna’s cheeks turn a dark pink.

But maybe it’s more than that, because she thinks of Blake again when they’re inside the airport, walking towards the security gate, and Weiss hangs back a little, like she doesn’t want to seem obvious. But it _is_ obvious; her eyes keep getting stuck on Pyrrha’s frame in front of her, darting away when she forces herself to look elsewhere, but always returning (iron and steel so easily dragged along by the proper magnetic force). Yang wants to shout at her, get her to _say something_ , to _admit_ how she feels, and — isn’t life funny? — it’s the first time Yang admits to herself that her own situation isn’t so far removed.

And there’s a moment — right in the middle of Pyrrha saying goodbye to Ruby, both hands on the shorter woman’s shoulders — when the expression on Weiss’s face is almost painful: yearning and regret so fully on display that it causes Yang’s heart to cramp (a muscle in distress, overused or underutilized; she can’t tell which). The expression is gone as soon as Weiss notices Yang watching — locked away behind a tight smile — but Yang’s initial thought lingers, long after they leave the airport.

_That’s how lying to yourself ends_ , it occurs to her, understanding crystalizing, _with losing the things you tried to pretend you didn’t want_.

It feels like a warning.

She makes up her mind to pay it heed.

 

—

 

But she thinks she’s earned a little more time to reflect before diving back in.

Just a moment or two to contemplate the idea of experiencing the sharp pain of a fall — the inevitable aftershocks — and immediately getting up and continuing on anyways. A second or three to think about strapping back into her board and heading back down a mountain with none of the dangers suddenly and magically removed.

Not that Yang hasn’t done it before. Time and time again.

(It feels silly to think that it might have all been in preparation for this. But Yang thinks it anyways.)

So she waits.

She puts her phone on silent for the next couple days and focuses on sorting out the feelings she’d been pushing away for some time now, threads of thoughts like the tangled wires of earbuds shoved to the bottom of a backpack and forgotten. If Blake _does_ text, she reasons, this would do _something_ to stem the instinct to respond right away.

(Because she would. Even with the earlier rejection, even in the midst of her introspection, she’d never be able to deny Blake an immediate response. Or anything else.)

But Blake doesn’t text. She doesn’t hear from her at all.

Given all that, Yang feels she’s perfectly justified in her shock when Ruby shows up to their Friday family dinner with Blake in tow, Ruby’s wide smile and Blake’s blank face giving nothing away.

(Yang had known Ruby would come back with something that wasn’t on her shopping list, but she’d only prepared herself for something like triple-stuffed Oreos.)

And, _oh_ , her heart _throbs_.

She thinks of Weiss and Pyrrha, of Blake’s soft looks and smiles, of the way it’d felt for Blake to touch her in the middle of the night, and she knows. She knows for sure.

She’s going to get back up.

“Guess who _I_ ran into at the grocery store?”

“I’m going to say _Blake Belladonna_ ,” Yang drawls, trying to not sound so full of her own revelations. Tries not to sound lovestick. Tries to keep the heavy pound of her heartbeat from leaking out into her words.

“That’s _right_!” Ruby bounces into the adjoining kitchen, dropping her two tote bags on the counter. “She was buying _dinner-to-go_ and didn’t have _any_ plans. I can’t believe you didn’t think to invite her to family dinner! You know Dad has been wanting to meet her.”

“Yeah.” She can’t help but add a _little_ bite to her words, and Blake has the good grace to duck her head and avoid Yang’s gaze. She’s lingering by the front door as though she’s liable to disappear through it as soon as she can manage it, as soon as everyone looks away. “Can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“Luckily for both of you, _I_ did,” Ruby sniffs, tossing her hair in the dramatic way Weiss was wont to do, without any of the smoothness (some of the strands of her long bangs end up in her mouth; the sputtering ruins whatever was left of the effect). “Where _is_ Dad?”

“Out in the back. Weiss is out there too, trying to get him to use the stupid grill we got him.”

They both roll their eyes at that, and Blake tilts her head in question at the sight, though she focuses on Ruby for her answer. It bothers Yang a little, more than she’d like to admit.

“See, Dad has this — ”

“We got Dad a grill for Christmas,” Yang cuts in to explain, and immediately regrets it. Ruby blinks at the unexpected interruption, and worse, _stares_. There’s a specific pinch to her brow, the one she wears when she’s on the verge of learning a new trick or when Weiss is explaining financials to them — the one that means she’s collected all the information she needs to sort out a problem, and is figuring out a Ruby-way to explain it to herself.

“‘We’ being me, Ruby, and Weiss,” she continues. “Dad’s always had this stupid portable one that could barely fit two burgers on at once and _always_ cooked things super unevenly. He gets attached to dumb stuff like that, but we figured enough was enough and bought him a real grill for Christmas. He hasn’t touched it, of course, so Weiss is out there trying to coax him into it. She’s best at guilting him into stuff like that.”

Blake’s expression doesn’t clear at the explanation, but at least she’s _looking_ at Yang now. “But it’s _snowing_ out. Why is he grilling?”

“Oh, that.” Yang shrugs. “He always grills for our monthly dinners. Actually, you should probably go help Weiss, Ruby. And let them know you’ve brought an _unexpected_ guest.”

It’s a dig, but she knows Ruby won’t take it as such, and, sure enough, her face brightens. “Oh, yeah! They’ll be so excited that I ran into her!” She dives into one of the bags, pulling out the Oreos (the ones Yang _had_ expected her to return with) and a pack of American cheese. “Double cheese for Yang and… what do you want on your burger, Blake?”

“A… normal amount of cheese?” She glances back over at Yang, as though checking to see if the answer is acceptable, and Yang feels her lips quirk — her shoulders relax — at the small gesture of familiarity.

“Weak. How can you even call it a cheeseburger if the meat isn’t fully encased in cheese?”

Blake loosens up too, the slight signs of tension Blake carries more often than not when in settings unfamiliar to her (now so _clear_ to Yang, when at first she’d barely noticed them at all), disappearing.

“See, I’d call that a heart attack on a plate,” she returns. “But what do I know?”

“I’ll have you know, my cholesterol levels are extraordinary. That’s actually the word my doctor used in my last physical. _Extraordinary_.”

“Wow, Yang.” Blake’s smile stretches further, and something loosens in Yang’s chest. “You’re the epitome of perfect health. Clearly.”

Yang snorts with laughter and Blake’s softer version of amusement sounds out as well. It’s only after a long second that Yang realizes they’re just _grinning_ at each other, really stupidly, and Ruby is nowhere in sight. Blake seems to notice at the same time, and her smile drops, arms folding over each other, gaze dipping away.

“So. Anyways.” Yang clears her throat, searching for something to say. “You’re… here.”

“Yeah. I’m — I texted you. Guess you didn’t get it?” Her shoulders lift back up when she tenses again, posture worsening.

“Yeah,” Yang says, shifting from one foot to the other. “I… didn’t.”

And _god_ , it’s agony, the awkward silence that stretches between them, stifling with all the things unsaid. The very notion of _holding back_ grates, especially now, but she’s left without an alternative; she knows she has more to say, but can’t pin down how to say it; a distant, dissonant song on repeat, the origin of which she can’t find even if she’s finally ready to start looking.

“That makes this… really uncomfortable.” The wince is clear on Blake’s face, emotions on display in a way that makes Yang pause; there’s regret there, even if she can’t narrow in on the exact origin. “I tried to say _no_ , but Ruby… ” She trails off.

It’s awkward, but that earlier moment of ease — how simply they’d slid back into it — is more than enough to get Yang to push off, to get them moving downhill once again.

“ — Is pretty much impossible to say _no_ to when she’s asking you for _anything_ ,” Yang finishes, a small smile breaking out in an effort to put them both at ease. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been there a million times. I’m pretty sure she can make her eyes water on will. I’m just sorry you got dragged into something you didn’t wanna do.”

“No, Yang, that’s not — ” Blake cuts herself off with a sigh, but takes a step closer too, as though it’ll make up for it.

They’re half sentences and incomplete sentiments now, so much going to waste.

“It’s not that,” she continues, voice soft.

“Then what is it, Blake?” Yang moves closer too, shoulders shrugging up and down. Her words are soft, none of the harshness or bitterness present that might have existed earlier on in the week. “Because if being here _was_ something you wanted, then I can’t figure out why you said it wasn’t.”

Blake looks away, jaw flexing, and it’s Yang’s turn to sigh, especially when a familiar sound echoes through the house: the back door slamming against the living room wall, a result of loose hinges that Tai refused to have fixed on account of the few memories that came with them. (Ruby had been convinced the house was haunted because of the sound when they first moved in, and it took their Uncle Qrow performing what was _definitely_ an exorcism from a bad horror film to get her to walk anywhere near it. Six years later, Yang had swung the door open so hard that it left an indent that Tai _swore_ looked exactly like George Washington. Tai tells both stories every time someone mentions the slamming sound.) Yang’s well used to it, but Blake jumps a little, and she feels a bit of her (slight) exasperation slip away when Blake attempts to hide her obvious flinch, running a hand through her hair and shaking it out.

“I heard we have a guest!” Tai calls and appears shortly after, wearing one of the many novelty aprons he’d picked up over the years. (This one reads, ‘License To Grill’ underneath what’s surely an unauthorized use of James Bond’s image.) “Blake! I’ve heard a million things about you! So glad you made it!”

If Blake’s surprised by the warmth of Tai’s handshake, she doesn’t show it, but when she returns it, there’s enough of a smile to indicate that she might be pleased by the enthusiasm of the greeting, if nothing else.

“I hope it’s not a problem that I’m joining you at the last minute, Mr. Xiao Long.” It’s polite enough to make Yang’s teeth ache, and she’s glad when her dad laughs, shaking his head.

“ _Tai_ , please. And it’s no problem. Someone should’ve thought to invite you earlier, so it’s the girls’ fault, not yours.”

“Right, sure,” Yang grumbles. “You think Weiss will ask why I waited so long to invite you too?”

This time, Blake ignores her.

“Well, thank you for having me.” She pauses, something warmer slipping into her tone. “Ruby and Yang talk so much about growing up here. It’s… easy to picture, seeing it now.”

“What, you mean because of the permanent damage they’ve done?” Tai laughs again. “See that crack in the door frame there? By the kitchen? That’s because Ruby built a potato cannon when she was _six_ that was _gas powered_. We can blame her Uncle for that one.” He puts his hands on his hips and sighs happily. “Yeah, lots of stuff like that around here. Yang, you better give her the tour. And don’t skip the story about the indoor snowpark. Especially not the part about the ramp that you built on the _roof_.”

“Why would I _skip_ that? Not only did I do a solid 720 off that thing, but I _also_ made over a hundred bucks charging entry.” She grins, throwing her arms out wide. “An athlete _and_ an entrepreneur; you were lucky to have such an incredible teenager.”

“And the angry calls I got afterwards from _several_ concerned parents?”

“Genius isn’t ever appreciated in its time,” Yang sighs.

“Yeah, well, _genius_ can have her burger cooked _last_ at this rate.” He shakes his head, too-long bangs falling into his eyes. “Blake, I swear I didn’t teach or encourage that ego.”

“I don’t think anyone can be blamed for _that_.”

Yang grins, nudging Blake’s shoulder; she’s forgotten that she’s meant to be keeping her distance, but so has Blake, who nudges her right back.

“You mean because it deserves applause rather than blame? You’re totally right.”

With a roll of his eyes, Tai swings his spatula at Yang’s head; she ducks it easily, twisting out of the way and flicking her fingers against his arm in one fluid motion.

“ _Last_ burger,” he promises again, crossing his arms. “And they’ll be ready in twenty, so get on with the tour, would you? I didn’t teach her to be a bad host _either_ , Blake.”

“Alright, alright. Enough trying to bond through teasing me. It’s like, a level of desperate that’s _sad_.” She steps away, slipping two fingers under the back of Blake’s cropped jacket to pull her in the same direction (there’s a surprising lack of resistance, just a look of amusement thrown over her shoulder). “I passed Bio, so I know you gave _some_ genes to me. Search deep, _deep_ within yourself and find those ones. You know, the cool parts.”

“When you were a kid, you made a superhero costume and turned an old pair of my pants into a cape. So I guess I gave you _those_ jeans _.”_

Yang groans loudly and tugs Blake away with a bit more urgency. “Oh my _god_ , you’re so _lame_.”

“Make sure you show Blake the pictures!” Tai calls after them. “They’re in one of the albums in the attic. We called you The Denim Dame!”

Blake’s _giggling_ , but Yang only realizes it when she’s _stopped_ , after she’s led Blake up the stairs — all the way to the top — her hand under Blake’s jacket shifting in the ascent, until her palm is flat against the ridge of Blake’s spine, shape of it obvious through the thin cotton of her shirt. And it’s probably that — the realization of it — that has Blake’s laughter sliding away, though she doesn’t _move_ away as well, only stares, hardly blinking.

“Um.” Yang pulls her hand away, sliding it into her pocket instead. “I don’t actually know where that album is. With the jean cape. But I can still give you a tour? If you actually want to do that outside of me using it as an excuse to get away before my dad could tell more stories.”

“I like the stories.” It’s said simply, with a level of earnestness that feels novel. “And your dad. You’re a lot alike.”

Yang groans, stepping away and stumbling further down the hallway, like she’s been shot, hand over her chest. “Things _not_ to say to — ”

_The person you’re sleeping with_ , is what Yang nearly says, but that feels both 1) weird as _fuck_ and 2) like something she maybe isn’t supposed to be talking about right now. Or maybe it’s all she’s supposed to be talking about. She still hasn’t quite figured out how she wants to proceed, despite being certain that she wants to proceed at all.

“ — To anyone. Ever,” she finishes, straightening upright.

Blake’s lips curl into a half smile, the corners lifting _just_ enough to showcase her amusement; it’s that very same look again — the soft one — that Yang might recognize on a stranger’s face, but has a hard time reconciling with Blake herself, with the arrangement they’ve made, with the harsh reminders of it at the strangest of times. But then, it’s always the small things that seem to matter most with Blake, the little movements and gestures that feel the most genuine. And maybe that’s because those were the ones that seem less controlled, more likely to slip through.

It’s not so much the carefully worded rejection, it suddenly occurs to Yang, but the gentle lift of Blake’s brow — like when she looks at Yang now — that says the most.

“I meant it as a compliment,” Blake murmurs, and _that_ — combined with the soft look, soft smile — feels stupidly obvious now.

(A lot of things feel a little more obvious.)

“Well, feel free to try again.” She smiles too, wider than she should, with more relief than is warranted by the words, settling back into her skin with new understanding. “Like, give me one that _doesn’t_ involve any of my family members? Just a thought.”

“Mm, that’s tough.” She taps her fingers to her growing smile, brushing past Yang as she walks slowly down the hall, the very picture of a woman pacing in thought.

Yang follows her, steps aligned. “It _really_ shouldn’t be. Unless you mean because there are _so_ many things to choose from.”

She nearly collides with Blake when she halts abruptly, and spins on her heel, which places her directly in front of the woman— closer than they’ve been in days, and with a resulting rush ten times stronger than Yang remembers — who squints up at Yang in careful consideration. “No, that’s not it at all.”

But then she smiles, a flash of teeth, and Yang knows to laugh.

“Wow. No way are you getting the deluxe tour with this kind of treatment. You could have had it all, Belladonna, but now you’re stuck with the standard edition. No bonus features.”

“Let’s have it, then.” She lifts her chin, and Yang gets momentarily distracted, tracing her eyes along the shape of Blake’s jaw.

“Sure. Right.” She lifts her right arm to gesture, but not her gaze. “Dad’s room is at the end of the hall. Ruby and Weiss’s room is behind me. My room’s at the other end of the hallway. And... done! Thank you for visiting us at the Xiao Long-Rose household. Feel free to tip your tour guide.”

Blake’s head tilts, her smile curls further. And best of all, she takes a half-step closer. “A tip, huh?”

“Never expected, but always appreciated,” she breathes.

“In that case — ” She leans forward, voice dropping. “ — You should really consider adding the Wall of Tiny Yang Photos to your tour.”

It takes a moment, but when Yang catches up to the meaning behind Blake’s words and smile, she just rolls her eyes, especially when Blake lets their shoulders brush as she slips past her, sauntering down to the end of the hallway where the photographs — all of different sizes and in different frames — start, nearly chronological in order.

“Not that kind of tip.”

“It was a good one though,” Blake calls over her shoulder, as though Yang isn’t immediately following behind, dragged along in the force of her wake. “ _This_ is the content the people want to see. Little baby Yang, missing her two front teeth, cuddling up to a snowboard bigger than she is.”

“I started snowboarding when I was three, so I was basically a pro by then.” She steps up alongside Blake; it takes effort not to reach up and touch the photo where it hangs, to brush her fingers along the figure in white, clutched to her younger self’s side, opposite from where she holds her board. “I think I was five? Almost six? Dad took Ruby out for a lesson so that Summer and I could have a day to ourselves. She was always good about that. After Ruby was born she always wanted to make sure I didn’t feel — ” Yang squints, not holding back tears, but still surprised at the sudden force of the emotions. It’s not quite the memories of that time (she was too young for them to have fully formed), but more everything that came after, all the years — nearly a decade — before pictures like this were permitted to exist in places that weren’t boxes covered in dust. “Neglected, I guess. She was all about splitting up her time fairly. Making sure we all had those special moments with her.”

There’s a couple other pictures from around that time; the four of them in various poses, often in the snow, often with their gear, which makes the gap that follows all the more obvious, the years where documenting the passage of time had been the last thing on Tai’s mind. When the photos pick back up, it’s the easiest Spot the Difference game anyone’s ever played: Yang’s teeth have all grown back in, the landscape’s that of a different county, her board has lengthened along with her body, and there’s three figures instead of four.

No one ever really knows how to react, especially not when it’s brought up for the second or third time, when the ‘ _I’m so sorry_ ’s that come naturally on a first telling don’t quite fit any more, but Blake doesn’t appear particularly conflicted, leaning a bit into Yang’s side and offering a smile that — Yang realizes after a second of reflection — mirrors her own, a little wistful, but not sad.

“And here are our years in North Dakota. You’ll notice Ruby went through a similar no-front-teeth era, but unlike me, _she_ helped that process along with the whole string-around-the-door-knob trick.” Yang’s grin stretches wide. “Dad picked up the whole Tooth Fairy thing after we moved over here, so Ruby had more motivation to lose them than I did.”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say _maybe_ she had a big sister to help with that whole door trick,” Blake returns, tone dry, but still fond.

“That… might be a good guess. But _only_ because I support my sister in everything she does.”

Her tone is teasing, like it’s a joke, but it’s not — not really — and Blake doesn’t take it as one, nodding as she moves further down the rows of photos, history in snapshot form. She takes in their makeshift backyard snowpark (both she and Ruby ignoring the camera, hard at work setting up a long lead pipe in the packed snow), Yang’s first medal (held up in both her hands, nearly blocking her face), and their move to Utah (Yang a pre-teen now, a wink present in more photos than not). But when a new face starts appearing — popping up sporadically at first, but then as often as either Ruby or Yang — Blake’s smile widens enough to make her eyes squint.

“Gained a new addition to the family when you were in high school, I see.”

Again, it’s not really a joke.

“Yeah, pretty much.” Yang gestures a bit further down, where there’s a collection of three photos grouped together: graduation portraits of herself, Ruby, and Weiss, the former two wearing large smiles, the latter without any trace of one, blue eyes hard, jagged line cutting through the left one, red and angry and fresh.

“You said Ruby and Weiss’s room earlier,” Blake prompts slowly, staring at Weiss’s photo for a second longer before turning back to Yang. “She lived here?”

“For pretty much her entire senior year.” Yang chews on the inside of her lip, uncertain how much to say. “After — did you... ever ask Weiss about how she got her scar?”

The abrupt shift doesn’t surprise Blake, and any lingering mirth leaves her face as she sorts through the information it provides. “Yes. She told me it was an accident. A fencing match without the proper equipment and a broken sabre tip.”

“Yeah. That’s what she told us too. When she showed up here in the middle of the night with blood all over her face.” The anger over the incident — over everything behind it — isn’t fresh, but it still feels just as strong; Yang has to take in a slow breath before she’s able to continue, has to relax her shaking hand out of a fist, one finger at a time. “Her dad wanted her to go to his alma mater. Study law and help him defend the fifty million lawsuits his shitty company picks up on a daily basis or whatever. Guess they were having a disagreement about it right in the middle of an at-home fencing match. Like you do.”

Blake looks away, frown pinching her brow.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s about what I’d figured.”

Silence settles around them, sinking into Yang’s chest. It’s pretty rare for a day to go by where she doesn’t want to murder Jacques Schnee; today isn’t one of those days.

“But,” Blake continues — voice still soft, but not as sad — and Yang finds her gaze again, finds the affection there, not masked in the least. “She got out. Went to the college she wanted to go to. Majored in the things she wanted to major in. And she had… all of you.”

She gestures towards the last photo on the wall. It’s recent. And it’s one of Yang’s favorites: the four of them are outside of the Park City Mountain Lodge, and her dad — fully decked out in his gear, goggles pushed up on his forehead, hair sticking up in every direction — is grinning, his arm slung around Weiss, who’s laughing with unguarded mirth at Yang and Ruby, slightly off to the side, each wearing a full-length dinosaur costume, faces barely visible behind the clear plastic at the neck.

Yang snorts, shaking her head. “Lost a bet to Dad and Weiss. Something about a slalom race. They’d never seen anything funnier in their entire lives, apparently. But we landed _a ton_ of jumps in those outfits, so _I_ think the joke was on them.”

“Right. Of course.” She smiles, expression open, but still hard to decipher, if only for reasons opposite of the typical. There’s almost _too much_ there. “That’s what I meant, though,” she adds softly, waving her hand at the photo, towards the two laughing figures. “When I said that you and your dad are similar.”

Yang’s lips quirk in question, glances over to where Blake indicates. “What? The hair? I always say if I got into a fight with a weed wacker, my hair _would_ look just like his. But come on. Give me a _little_ more credit when talking about its current state.”

“No.” Blake doesn’t look away, though she shakes her head slowly. There’s something significant happening here, Yang knows, and holds her gaze, feels her heart lift with what she finds there, shadows falling away. “Kindness. Making someone like Weiss look… like that. That happy.”

Yang might suck in a breath, but it feels more like the whole of the world does instead, holding stagnant air in its chest as it waits.

“Yang.” Blake swallows once. There’s a flash of uncertainty in her eyes, but it passes quickly, and she presses on. “After dinner is over, will you go somewhere with me?”

And it feels nice, not to have to hesitate.

“Anywhere.”

 

—

 

Blake drives.

She doesn’t say much, not when they say their goodbyes, not when she turns on a Spotify playlist (Yang recognizes it as the one she often plays after she skis), and not as they pass the sign for Deer Valley, even when Yang gives her a look she can’t miss, despite her eyes remaining on the road. By the time they’re out of the car and heading up the path towards the Ski Lodge, Yang has more than a few questions, but bites her tongue, busying herself by tugging her beanie (stolen from Blake and never returned) down over her hair, tucking the rest of it under her bomber jacket, fur-lined collar popped.

There’s something special about a mountain at night, and even the crowd of skiers around them can’t change that. The snow sounds different unfoot (under board), sounds louder; it looks different too, cleaner and brighter under the spotlights that keep the trails lit. But most of all, there’s a certain reverence for the whole of it, one that makes it easier to continue her silence when Blake passes by the lodge and steps out onto the base snow instead, weaving around the milling skiers, walking up towards the lift. There’s a patroller there, but he only smiles and waves when Blake steps into the light, holds up the line to let Blake and — when she reaches back to take Yang’s gloved hand — Yang onto the next chair.

Blake doesn’t pull the bar down when the chair lifts off, and Yang could try to read into that, but instead she keeps Blake’s hand in hers, tries to decide whether the moon or the sun favors Blake’s features more. (She can’t make up her mind; settles on both, but in different ways.)

“I’m afraid that I haven’t been totally honest with you,” Blake begins suddenly. There’s a rehearsed nature to it, the cadence of words repeated over and over again, if only mentally. “The other night, when I said — or maybe I didn’t say it, but I implied that I — that I didn’t want to come over for dinner. And then I just _showed up_ out of nowhere and you must think that — ”

It all falls apart quickly, like carefully prepared words often do, and something twists in Yang’s chest, something like appreciation, maybe, that Blake’s trying as hard as she is to get the words right, even if she doesn’t have to at all. Yang knows she owes Blake the same.

“Blake,” she cuts in gently. “It’s alright. I know.”

And she _does_.

She’s _pretty sure_ she does, though Blake — when she turns to her sharply enough to shake the chair — looks so shocked at the declaration that it shakes Yang’s confidence, if only a little.

“You _know_?” she repeats. “You — you know _what_?”

“I — ” Yang takes in a deep breath, takes comfort in the cold air, sharp and biting in her lungs. “I know we’re not what either of us wanted to be. Not what you wanted us to be, for sure.” She smiles, hoping it’ll lessen the significance of what she knows she has to say. “Babe, we’re _complicated_.”

Blake’s laughter breaks like waves on a cliff, sun through the clouds, rain from the sky. It feels good, and Yang joins in, relief saturating the sound.

“We’re complicated,” Blake repeats, and some of that relief slides away when the agreement manages to sound resigned, despite the lingering laughter. But she squeezes Yang’s hand too, stays close to her side, no space between them on the chair.

“So, what makes that so bad?”

Because that’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? Not a lack of desire, a lack of want; Blake’s told her that in a million different ways, even if Yang’s been too caught up in her own conflicting thoughts to notice that everything wasn’t as clear cut as _either_ of them had been pretending they were. There’s layers and layers and layers, but this feels like the first one they need to pull back.

“I… don’t know.” Blake laughs again, this time without any humor at all. “Isn’t that _ridiculous_? All this time I spent running from it or pretending I didn’t feel anything more than I wanted and I don’t even _know_ why I feel like this.” She huffs out a breath, obscuring the air between them with a cloud of white. “I’m just so _tired_ of people being hurt.”

Yang shakes her head, words tumbling out before she can process them. “I’d never hurt you, Blake.”

But that’s not it at all, and Blake’s look of confusion — as though she finds this particular concern incomprehensible — is proof enough of that.

“I don’t mean _me_ ,” she says, slow and clear.

“Oh,” Yang breathes, fiberglass realizations sliding deep under her skin. “Babe, you’re not going to hurt me either.”

Blake looks away; the lift is ending and that’s a good enough excuse for it, if not the actual reason. Still, it feels a little unfair when she only speaks once they’re ready to hop off, when Yang’s attention has shifted to the sloping off-ramp in front of them, infinitely easier to manage when there’s a board or skis beneath your feet.

“Haven’t I already?”

It’s the middle of winter and temperatures have been consistent — always below freezing, even at midday — so there’s none of the danger that comes with a spring snow (ice forming overnight, tripping everyone up in the morning when the trails are too slick, too fast), but Yang still slips when she hops off the chair, sliding down the ramp and stumbling at the bottom of it. It’s not like a face-plant into powder is something unfamiliar to her, but she’s still relieved when she’s caught from behind, sure fingers wrapping around her arm and yanking her upright, the reverse momentum carrying her into a warm body rather than the cold snow.

“Kinda seems like the opposite to me,” Yang breathes. “From here.”

There’s a bit of a struggle, but Blake’s smile wins out in the end, curling at one end and then the other, and when Yang stands up all the way, Blake doesn’t release her, shifting her hand from bracing her arm to resting lightly on her bicep.

“Maybe I’ve just got you fooled.”

“Maybe you’re just fooling yourself.”

The smile tilts.

“Probably. I’ve done it before. That’s part of the problem.”

Two more skiers leave the lift behind them, sliding past with a shout about blocking the ramp; Yang’s never cared less about being chastised, but Blake waves in apology, nudges Yang back with two fingers to her stomach.

“Blake — ”

“Come on.” She cuts her off, but does so gently. “I brought you up here for a reason.”

She recognizes the words for what they are: a request for a moment to regroup, and Yang grants it with a nod, fingers dragging along Blake’s hip as she steps back.

“Sure. Lead and I’ll follow.”

It’s quieter at the top of the mountain, less people and fewer lights. Only the wind is louder, and that hardly counts; the whistling in her ear is another sort of silence. Blake doesn’t need to pause to reorient herself, not once. She takes them on a direct route, away from the trail, towards a dark building partially jutting off the side of the back cliff.

“Ski patrol,” Blake explains (somewhat unnecessarily, when the red cross on the front door comes into view), and pulls out a ring of keys from her jacket pocket. “They don’t use this one for night skiing, though.”

Holding back the various jokes about defiling new parts of Deer Valley isn’t easy, but Yang manages, following Blake into the unlit room, shutting the door behind her.

“Sometimes the staff throws midnight parties here.” Blake reaches for her hand again, rather than the light, tugging her further into the dark. “But I like it better like this, when no one’s around. Watch your step; we’re going up a floor.”

“You like it better when it’s pitch black and probably like, haunted by the ghost of skiers who decided against wearing helmets. Of course you do.”

She’s pretty sure Blake rolls her eyes at that one, around the same time she gives Yang’s hand a particularly sharp tug, sending her stumbling over the last step. She’s _definitely_ sure the trip makes Blake laugh, because she hears the soft snort in the dark.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll be laughing until I fall and break my neck and start haunting this place too. Turning on a light wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing in the world, would it?”

“Mm, no you have to let your eyes adjust. It’ll just be another — there it is. We’re just gonna climb this ladder here and then your _harrowing_ experience with the dark will be over.”

Blake tugs again and suddenly they’re a whole lot closer, nearly front to front. Yang squints, tries to take in more of her expression in the dim moonlight coming from one of the few small windows, but can’t make much of anything out. She’s not sure she needs to; Blake’s tone (gentle and teasing) and her touch (more of the same) says an awful lot. And then it’s only another couple moments, a few rungs of the ladder, before they’re outside again, Blake pushing open the hatch leading to the roof, offering a hand to pull Yang the rest of the way up, once she’s there.

Yang takes it.

(She doesn’t need the help, but misses the warmth; their hands are gloved, but she feels it anyways.)

“There,” Blake breathes. “See? Best view on the mountain.”

She’s not wrong, though it’s a moment before Yang looks away from Blake to take it all in and agree. There aren’t any obstructions here, not of the sky or the mountains surrounding them, and it’s truly stunning. But Blake’s face as she looks out into the night is calm and content, easy and open, and Yang finds her eyes flickering back to that after only a moment of looking away. The roof is flat and covered in snow fresh enough to be marked only by their own footprints as they head to the edge of it, where a few pool chairs are turned to face out over the side of the mountain shut down for the night, the only lights coming from distant homes of the city below.

“I guess it’s worth the trip.” Yang’s voice is soft, almost a whisper, something about the atmosphere (about Blake’s reverence for it) demanding the quiet be maintained. She even _sits_ gingerly, bracing herself on the cheap plastic frame of the chair before settling on it, not bothering to brush off the snow.

“I thought it would be a good place to… talk.”

The sense of comfort slips off Blake’s face quickly, and when she sits, her movements are stilted, overly controlled. It’s not a side of Blake that Yang imagines anyone sees too often, but the privilege feels painful.

“You don’t have to — ”

Blake shakes her head violently and Yang shuts her mouth with the same force, bites on her bottom lip to keep it closed.

“A few years ago, I got out of a bad relationship.” She looks down, where her hands are tangled together, but only briefly, chin jutting back up sharply. “It took longer than it should have. To leave. He was… magnetic. So _focused_ on the things he wanted. Which included me. And it was nice to be wanted like that, so intensely. I thought — I guess I thought that everything that happened after we got together was part of that, that he was pushing me to be better. I was so _sure_ it was all out of love and — ”

Her face twists in discomfort, fingers curling into fists, and Yang hardly thinks before covering one of them with her own hand. It doesn’t feel like the wrong choice, as instinctive as it is, not when Blake flips over her hand to allow for more overlap (to let her fingers stroke up Yang’s wrist, brushing over the pulse).

“The details don’t really matter,” Blake continues, words escaping in a quiet sigh. “But by the time it was over, I’d pushed away everyone who had mattered to me before him; my parents had been too _controlling_ in their concern, my friends were just _jealous_ of what I’d had with him. He’d convinced me that everyone else was wrong, that he was the only person who wanted — knew — what was best for me. And I… let him. And I know — I _know_ it’s stupid to blame myself. That I _shouldn’t_ blame myself, but it’s — it’s not like he was holding a gun to my head. I _believed_ him and ignored _everyone_ around me. I was _awful_ to them. I’m still working on making up for that. I think I always will be.

“When I left, I didn’t _think_ about anyone else. I was so focused on getting out — on myself — that I just ran. Moved to Utah and… tried to forget it ever happened. Tried to pretend that all the behaviors I’d _known_ about would stop if I wasn’t around. Maybe it was easier to think that _I’d_ been the problem after all, because that way I wasn’t leaving behind a — I don’t know — a _bomb_ that someone else would have to try to defuse.”

Her grip tightens, nails digging into the skin at Yang’s wrist; it’s hardly the most painful thing Yang’s trying to bear in silence at that exact moment in time.

“But I was. And he hurt someone last year — a rider in his circuit — and finally got caught. The other morning? Ilia — my friend Ilia — she was updating me about the trial. It’s been kept really quiet, but Ilia still has some connections to that group and — and that doesn’t really matter either. Except that her message reminded me of... everything. How easily people get hurt. How I don’t ever want to be like that again. Feel like that again. That’s why I pulled back and why I think — you’re a lot more than I thought you’d be, Yang — and I don’t think I can do this.”

Blake’s shoulders lift with her next inhale, deep and a little shaky, and Yang mirrors the action, giving them both a beat, though she doesn’t need to consider her response. All the turmoil in her — all the anger and anguish — but none of it can touch the certainty she feels about this one thing.

“Okay.”

“I — what?”

“Okay,” she says again, softer this time. “If you can’t do _this_ , that’s okay. We probably haven’t been doing it right anyways. But, you can do _something_. I mean, you must _want_ something. So what is it?”

“I — ”

She’s never seen Blake’s eyes so wide, and she’d laugh in any other situation, but as it is, she leans forward a little more, takes Blake’s other hand with her own, and smiles.

“Look, I — I have no idea how you made it out of any of that. I can’t begin to imagine. A fuck-ton of bravery, I guess. Resilience too. And all of that… well, it makes sense you’re still dealing with it. It’d be messed up if you weren’t. But that doesn’t mean I buy into the idea that you have to be alone for the rest of your life, or whatever.” She squeezes both of Blake’s hands. “So if you want to be with me — in whatever way — then you should. But without the whole pretending like we don’t care about each other as much as we do. We’re kind of past that, don’t you think?”

“Yang,” Blake breathes. “I don’t — how can you — ?”

And then _she’s_ laughing — disbelief and relief rolled into one — leaning forward with the force of it, until her forehead is pressed to Yang’s and her hands have slid away, up to Yang’s cheek, fingers curling around her jaw. Yang laughs too, glad to be given permission — their breaths mingling together, visible in the cold air — and rests her hands just above Blake’s knees, a gentle touch, hardly any pressure at all.

“It’s not that easy.”

Yang pulls back, finds Blake’s eyes, still wide, but less wild.

“I know,” she murmurs. “But we could try it anyways. Take it one step at a time.”

“After everything I told you, that’s really what you want?”

And again, there’s no hesitation. The choice is easy, hardly a choice at all.

“Yeah.” And it’s that simple, really. “So, what do you think? What do you want, Blake?”

“I — ” Blake laughs again, emotions bubbling over. “I guess I just want you.”

Her breath slides against Yang’s lips, warm and sweet, and Yang waits — spine tense with inaction — but not for long. Blake’s mouth brushes up against hers, a gentle kind of gratefulness in the action, yes, but more than that, a sort of agreement, a soft affirmation of the words that Blake still hasn’t quite managed to say, but clearly feels.

“Okay.” Yang nods once, and pulls back just enough to press their foreheads back together again. “That’s a good place to start.”

 

—

 

It’s easier after that, in all of the smallest ways.

The tension settles — smoothes out — not gone, but transformed. She notices it most in the spaces that disappear between them, entirely absent when she brushes the tips of her fingers against Blake’s shoulder when they sit in the booth at Taco Bell — so close that Blake’s leg nearly overlaps her own — after Ruby gets a craving at 11:47 pm for a Crunchwrap Supreme and _won’t stop mentioning it_ until they all give in. Or on the slopes, sliding into the lift line after a great run, and Blake skies in next to her, brushing her knuckles against the back of Yang’s vest, easy and casual, a gentle reminder she’s there.

And then there are the spaces of a different sort: Blake’s soft admission on a Sunday morning that she likes the way Yang’s hand feels in hers, the easy lift of Yang’s heart when Blake’s lips brush against her cheek without any lead-in or follow-up, going out to dinner for the first time (just the two of them) without having to make an excuse. She stays at Blake’s place and doesn’t worry if it’s too soft, doesn’t think about how long she can remain in her bed without pushing past the boundaries of what they’d not quite defined. It’s not that they’ve defined it _now_ , really — that’s a conversation that Blake avoids, but always with an apologetic smile, with a tilt of her lips that says not _yet_ — but the change is tangible, nevertheless.

It’s _apparent_ too, if Ruby’s smile is anything to go by, bright and pleased when Yang slips back into the apartment late one night — not a few days later — after a session of axe throwing (an activity that Blake had been frighteningly good at).

“Good date night?”

Yang scoffs, but any feeling other than contentment is hard to maintain, even for a second, when Ruby looks so pleased.

“We’re not calling it that,” she says, but fails at appearing stern, in tone or expression.

“Sure.” It’d be too easy of an admission if not for Ruby’s eyebrows, jutting up and down comically as she leans forwards over the back of the couch, half her body hanging off, blocking Yang’s path past. It makes Yang laugh, hand falling on Ruby’s head and musing her hair; the long strands stick up and out, revealing the undercut underneath, badly in need of a hairdresser’s attention.

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it.” The smile, combined with the clear amusement in her voice, takes any potential bite out of the words, but Ruby still frowns, drooping forward a little more, almost fully supported by Yang’s hand.

“I _should’ve_ said something before. But it seemed like you both _really_ wanted to pretend everything between you was just — ” She makes a face, nose crinkling. “You know. But then! After everything with Weiss and Pyrrha and you being _so_ grumpy last week, I had to do _something_!”

“You had to — ” Yang pulls her hands away and Ruby drops, body folding over the couch, a squeak escaping her before she can catch herself. “Ruby, what did you do?”

She scrambles back upright, forearms bracing on the back pillows. “You know, at family dinner? Neptune texted Weiss that Blake was being mopey — you know how he’s best friends with Sun? Blake’s roommate? So Sun was the one who texted _him_ about that first, I _think_ — and he said that she was really starting to embrace the cat lady stereotype because she was headed to the grocery store to pick up a meal for one on a Friday night _and so_ we decided that I should pretend we were out of cheese and go to the grocery store by Blake’s apartment and then convince her to come back with me for family dinner so you two would talk and make up and figure things out.”

Yang blinks several times, tries to formulate a response, and comes up short. She settles on something easy, instead.

“What the fuck?”

Easy _and_ effective.

“It _worked_ , didn’t it?”

“Yes, Ruby, you gossiping with Weiss’s ex about his best friend’s roommate and then stalking her to the grocery store and guilt tripping her into coming back to take part in a family dinner _did_ somehow get Blake and I to talk.” She pauses, folding her arms. “Congratulations.”

“See, your tone says _bad_ , but the end result is _really_ good, so…”

“ _Ruby_ ,” Yang groans.

“Well! I was _worried!_ About _both_ of you!” Ruby waves her arms about, conveying general franticness rather than any particular meaning. “It’s obvious you _like_ her and haven’t said everything you _wanted_ to and we’ve _both_ seen that go wrong before, and not said enough when we should’ve and so I —” She lifts her chin. “I _don’t_ regret it! At all!”

Yang softens immediately, arms uncrossing, and places a hand on Ruby’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Hey, I’m the big sister here. It’s not your job to worry like that.”

“It’s not your job to act like nothing’s wrong just because you _don’t_ want me worrying, either.” She’s so _earnest_ , big eyes holding Yang’s with a quiet determination. “You can talk to me, Yang. About _anything_. And I know you’ve always looked out for me, but I can look out for you _too_. Both me and Weiss can. No matter what else is going on.”

Yang stares for a long second before wrapping Ruby in a fierce hug, nearly knocking her off the back of the couch. Ruby squeaks again, but returns the embrace with the same force when she recovers, not a second later.

“Sap,” Yang says, affection saturating the word. “I love you. But you _really_ don’t have to worry. It’s good.”

“Thanks to _me_ ,” Ruby mumbles, muffled by Yang’s arms around her.

Yang releases her, just to flick her nose gently. “We would have talked. Eventually. We’re sorting things out. Just… taking it one step at a time.”

“So when’s the step where you become _girlfriends_?” Ruby grins again. “Because me and Weiss wanna start teasing you both about it without accidentally causing some crisis.”

“Alright, alright, let’s not go so far as _crisis_.” But Yang smiles too, and is surprised how _soft_ she sounds to her own ears when she continues. “And I dunno. But maybe that _is_ a step. Eventually.”

She doesn’t realize the truth of it until she says it.

Doesn’t realize just how much she wants it until it feels so good to say.

 

—

 

Weiss’s reaction is somewhat less enthused, or, at least it is when they stumble back into the apartment after a night out at _Beacon_ , Yang’s hands already under Blake’s shirt, lips already at her neck. It’d been a pretty typical night at the bar, but Yang’s found that it’s a lot more fun now that she can slide an arm around Blake every time some asshole comes over to hit on her. Or better, now that Blake steps a little closer — curls her fingers through one of Yang’s belt loops — when someone does the same to Yang. It’s kind of sexy, honestly, knowing that this thing between them is stable enough that they can both settle in with each other, in simple ways like that.

And they’re so caught up in the feeling of it (that, combined with Yang’s wandering mouth and hands and Blake removing first her own coat and then Yang’s, missing the coat rack completely when she tosses them aside) that both of them fail to notice Weiss sitting at the kitchen table until she clears her throat loudly. And possibly not for the first time.

It’s probably for the best that Blake recovers and speaks first, because her unusually bright expression, the way she hardly pulls away from Yang, the happiness soaking through her words, they all have a clear effect on Weiss, her severe expression melting away nearly instantaneously (replaced instead with a quiet contentedness, only slightly tainted by the dash of wistfulness underneath).

“Sorry,” Blake murmurs, hand sliding to Yang’s lower back to keep her close. “We didn’t think anyone was going to be here.”

“Clearly,” Weiss grumbles, and Yang nearly laughs at how obviously for show it all is. “I planned on spending a bit more time at the library, but there was some _barbarian_ in the workstation next to me that was chewing loudly enough to make me switch to contemplating how to get away with murder rather than marketing in the age of globalization.”

“Honestly, I sort of just thought you were _always_ thinking about how to get away with murder. Just in case.”

“Probably not the time to remind her of that.” Blake pinches her side, but it only makes Yang’s grin grow. “We’ll leave you to your work, Weiss. We can be _courteous_. Right, Yang?”

“Oh, for sure! We’re very ... quiet.”

Weiss’s lips curl into a sneer that’s so mocking, it’s almost impressive. “ _Right_. Guess I’ve been wearing out both my headphones and eardrums for no reason at all lately, then.”

“Oh, that’s — ” Blake flushes, dark red pooling in her cheeks. “ — That’s something we don’t need to talk about ever again.”

Yang just laughs and spins Blake in the direction of her bedroom, hands sliding just under her shirt to find her hips.

“See you tomorrow, Weiss. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You’ll make me migas,” Weiss sniffs.

She laughs again and waves over her shoulder at Weiss, who makes a big show of rolling her eyes and putting on the over-the-ears headphones that had already been resting alongside her laptop on the table.

“If you weren’t so loud in bed this never would have happened,” Yang teases in a faux-whisper as they head down the hallway, fully aware of what she’s setting herself up for. “I mean, I know I’m good, baby, but I never really wanted _Weiss_ to find out just _how_ good.”

“ _Me_?” Blake nudges her gently, the corner of her lip lifting, a paper’s edge curling over an open flame. “ _I’m_ the loud one? _Really_?”

She reaches around Blake to push open the door to her room at the end of the hall, sneaking in a kiss to her neck, a simple brush of her lips just under Blake’s ear that makes her shiver. “Uh huh. That’s what I’m saying.”

“And _I’m_ saying you’re full of your own bullshit, Yang Xiao Long.”

“Wanna bet?” Yang lifts her eyebrows, kicking the door shut behind her, spinning Blake back around, wanting to meet the warm gold of her crinkling eyes (which flick down to Yang’s lips almost immediately).

“You have a wager in mind?” she murmurs, and Yang _hadn’t_ , not really, but Blake’s low voice, the direction of her gaze, certainly gives her a few ideas.

Yang grins, fitting her hand against Blake’s jaw, leaning in close. “I can’t think of anything you wouldn’t agree to right away, no matter who wins.”

The darkening of Blake’s eyes — and the exhale she releases — is noticeable, but she shakes her head and clears the fog instead of submitting to it, leaning back a little to counter the effect.

“Ah — no, I meant — I was going to say — if _I_ win, you have to take a skiing lesson with me. A complete, half-day skiing lesson. In one of my beginner groups at Deer Valley.”

“Oh, _god_ ,” Yang groans, stumbling forward past Blake and dramatically flopping onto her bed, feet lifting. “Way to kill the _mood_ , Blake. Nerding out at Deer _Valley_ , I’d rather _die_.”

Blake is quick to prove to Yang that the mood very _much_ hasn’t left them when she kicks off her boots and kneels on the bed, knees on either side of Yang’s hips.

“Not as confident as you were pretending?”

“No, I am,” Yang breathes, fingers finding the skin at Blake’s hips. “Obviously. Which means _when_ I win, you have to wear Nora’s rainbow unicorn onesie and a giantass sign around your neck that says ‘snowboarders are better than skiers and also Deer Fucking Valley fucking blows’.”

“I’d say I’ll have to take out the profanity,” Blake begins, leaning down low, hands pressing against Yang’s upper ribs, purposeful in their placement. “But we both know it won’t come to that.”

And maybe Yang’s already lost then, because she definitely groans when Blake smirks down at her, hands inching upwards _just_ enough to send any sort of control over the noises she’s making firmly out of her reach. But bravado? She hardly needs conscious thought in order to bring _that_ forth.

“Oh, baby.” She pushes up into Blake’s touch, finds her lips with her own. The kiss is brief, but not particularly gentle. “It’s gonna be a pleasure showing you just how wrong you are.”

 

—

 

Blake takes to the challenge well.

A little too well.

Yang comes with a pillow shoved under her hips and Blake’s head between her legs, and she’s not quiet, not even a little, not the slightest bit. And Blake knows it too; her smile is smug (and wet) when she lifts it, and she crawls upwards and tugs on Yang’s hair until she lifts her head to meet Blake’s eyes.

“Told you,” she says simply, and Yang nearly moans again when her tongue darts out to lick her lips.

“Okay, but I — now it’s _my_ turn.”

“Need a moment before that?” Blake teases, still so _smug_ , and that gives Yang enough energy to surge upwards, flip them over, flicking open the clasp of Blake’s bra (strap dangling off her shoulder, but otherwise still in place, various distractions having interrupted its removal until that moment) before her back hits the mattress.

“I think I’m good.”

But she’s only pleased with herself for a moment, because Blake’s clearly in this to _win_ , and the surprise in her eyes fades quickly, replaced by a particular sort of determination when she finds Yang’s right hand — brushes her fingers down the bands of tattoos with a gentleness that somehow feels right — and fits it against her own neck.

“Blake — ” Yang swallows, but doesn’t move away.

“I’m not fragile,” Blake murmurs, a quiet but firm instistance. “Everything I told you it doesn’t mean — ”

Yang cuts her off as gently as she can (both with words and the tightening of her grip). “I know. I was going to say this is _cheating_.”

She feels Blake’s laughter against her palm, along with the steady pulse in her throat. The former cuts off and the latter spikes when she squeezes again, still lightly, and Blake’s hips twitch underneath her.

“Two taps here.” Yang gestures at her own wrist. “You’ll probably be moaning too much to use your safeword.”

“Arrogant,” Blake gasps, but leans further into Yang’s careful grip. “If you want to win, you’ll have to make me do more than _moan_.”

“ _That_ , I can do.”

(Blake takes to the challenge well, but Yang’s never let one pass her by without a fight.)

 

—

 

“By all measurements that matter,” Blake mumbles afterwards, words muffled, lips pressed to the bare skin just above Yang’s heart. “You lost.”

Yang’s fingers skim along the darkening marks at Blake’s neck, swoop along the curve of her shoulder, tangle in the mused curls spilling over her back. The heat between them — skin against skin — is _warm_ more than burning, and Yang imagines sinking into it forever, giving it every part of herself.

“In all the ways that matter,” she says, soft but not afraid, “there’s no way that’s true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you SO MUCH for your patience. I know it was a million years. I got distracted by many things, but most especially 6/9 Day. What a wild time.  
> 2\. Many thanks to Beth for reading this over and to Erin and Tori for looking this over in its early stages. Love you all.  
> 3\. More thanks for fiddleabout/nirav who is BRAND NEW TO THIS FANDOM and provided me with the idea of what Blake would have to do if she lost the bet.  
> 4\. Let's also welcome smallandsundry to the fandom and to reading this fic because she's my real life ski buddy and this fic was essentially written for her, even before I knew I'd be able to get her to read it.  
> 5\. I'm sure I'm forgetting something but I just want to FINALLY POST THIS after 10000 years. Thanks again for your patience.


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